Beyond the Blue Frontier
by Evil Riggs
Summary: A sinister party-crasher appears at a banquet held in honor of the Hero of the Triforce. Can the new Link keep his wits long enough to deal with this deeply unwelcome guest? Part III of The Legend of Zelda: Shadow Dawn. Rated M for disrespect, disrobings, and disembowelment.
1. 1

**THE LEGEND OF ZELDA:  
>SHADOW DAWN<strong>

**Foreword**

_This is the second set of author's notes for _The Legend of Zelda: Shadow Dawn. _Know now that this is the third part of a very long tale. As such, if this is your first time here, I highly suggest that you click on my profile and start everything from the beginning with _The Amber Twilight. _From there, read _The Green Horizon _and you'll be right as rain.  
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_If you simply must plow forward – certain to stumble out shaken and confused – know that this story concerns Linus Olsen, a young man raised in the legendary city of Los Angeles. As a result of many adventures and misadventures, Linus finds himself trapped in the increasingly unfamiliar climes of Hyrule. With the legendary Master Sword at his side, Linus has overcome many trials and tribulations to claim the title of Hyrule's fated Hero . . . the Link to the Triforce._

_Unfortunately, being the prophecied savior of the world has more than its share of downsides. For instance, Linus finds himself destined to eventually do battle with Hyrule's eternal enemy: Ganon, the Old Darkness. After nearly dying in battle with Ganon's forces, Linus has discovered that something even more terrible than an immortal monster lies at the heart of Hyrule's problems. Now, he must figure out a way to overcome the unstoppable Hell bearing down on his adoptive kingdom.  
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_For a time, I honestly thought that no one would ever read this. After all, there was a period of more than a year in which _The Green Horizon _saw no update. It's strange to finally be moving into the third part of this incredibly overstuffed saga. As a procedural note, there are five planned parts to the entire tale. We still have a long way to go.  
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_Many thanks are due to all my readers and reviewers – especially those who have stuck through since that dimly remembered beginning. Your patience, support, and candid criticism are appreciated more than you can imagine._

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><p><strong>PART III:<br>BEYOND THE BLUE FRONTIER**

**1**

"Are you ready?"

"Yeah."

"_Truly_ ready?" she asked, ever skeptical.

"Of course. I was born ready."

"It will not be easy. It may not be very pleasant at all. You may pull out whenever you wish."

"Let's just get on with it, all right?"

"As you wish," Zelda said. "Follow my lead."

I pointed at the darkened doors and growled, "Let's jam."

With an exasperated roll of her eyes, Zelda gestured to the legionary guardsmen flanking the exit. One extended a gauntlet and pulled open the heavy door. A sigh of chill, wet air slid about us. There came sounds of drums and laughter.

With Zelda al-Imzadi at my side, I marched out into the glorious night.

We stomped down the front steps of the Imperial Palace's Guest Wing, shivering slightly and squinting into the distant steel-gray of the sky. A tide of echoing voices swam over the open spaces of the palace's vast grounds. Boyish shouts and lusty singing rang against the arches and darkened spires of the many annex buildings.

Two more legionaries waited patiently at the bottom of the crumbly brick steps. Their elaborate, heavy plate armor reflected ceremony rather than necessity. When our boots touched ground, the guardsmen took position – one to each side of us, lances slung over their shoulders almost casually.

"Sir Olsen. Miss Imzadi. Are we away?" the man to Zelda's left asked.

"We are indeed," Zelda said.

The guardsmen fell into lockstep beside us. They would follow our route all the way to our eventual destination. I knew neither of them, and in turn they spoke no more than a few terse words as we made our way. They strode as silver-limbed phantoms through the blooming tumult of the night.

Paper lanterns were strung throughout the shade trees of the Guest Wing's gardens. Flickering globes of lavender and lime and creamsicle orange. We passed beneath their undulating lines as if they were the gates to a strange and storied age.

I couldn't suppress a tremor of mixed cold and anticipation as it flowed down my spine. Tonight promised to be as strange and saturnine as any I'd yet experienced. As they might say, it was the first night of the rest of my life.

Of course, nothing could compare to the dread and awe I had felt just hours before, on the cusp of the ceremony that had forever altered the course of my life. When I had woken that morning, warm and sweat-bound and aching, I had simply been Linus Olsen – born of Earth, bred of Los Angeles, and then nearly broken by Hyrule. One momentous ceremony later, I was no longer simply Linus. Now, I walked resolutely as _Sir _Linus Olsen the Link. To all men and creatures of Hyrule, I was none other than the Hero of the Triforce himself.

Well. In name, at least. Even now – so splendidly attired and about be toasted by the whole of Hyrule's royal court – I could not banish the last, whispering streamers of doubt.

But at that moment? The gelatinous fingers of my own self-loathing couldn't touch me. Every step felt buoyant. Every breath was fresh with water pooling on granite and the rich odor of saturated grass. My head could barely contain the whirling enormity of the day behind and ahead of me. Even as my lingering injuries throbbed and grumbled, I swaggered as one intoxicated by the stupendous scope of the future. My body swung loose, tingling with hope and exaltation.

It was hard not to succumb to such a trance. After all, I was far from the only one who had given in to an atmosphere soaked with celebration. As the afternoon storms ended, the festivities had begun.

Rain had fallen on the capitol of Hylium in bone-chilling fits and starts for about a week. The unpredictably sodden weather had cast an odd pall over my return to the city. Not necessarily dreadful or melancholy, but it had lent the past three days a stark and sometimes funereal air. The weather had continued even into today, wetting down the streets as I had looked on from my carriage. During the knighting ceremony, sheets of rain had pattered over the Great Temple of Hylium like the beating of a snare drum.

Now the evening wavered damp and cool as the mouth of a well. Lawns glistened like beds of tawny green crystals. Puddles spread slickly over stone paths. Tree branches shed icy droplets in a serene chorus. Though the drizzle and downpour had abated hours ago, the sky was still an impenetrable gray ceiling.

None of this had kept the palace gardens from filling up with revelers. We loped now into a busy wonderland of bright colors and darting, giggle-laden silhouettes.

Lamp poles hissed hotly above the grounds. In their bright alchemic glow the lawns, groves, gazebos, and walkways were divided into high-contrast pools of light and shadow.

Vertical pennants were hung on poles all along the rambling paths. Each was some variant of Harkinian purple, Eldin green, Lanayru blue, Baeleus crimson, and many other colors whose significances I couldn't identify. They flapped vibrantly even in the soggy half-darkness.

Everywhere there wandered people in a state of happy, stuporous celebration. Even as we exited the bowl-like depression housing the Guest Wing and mounted a shale walkway, random and seemingly spontaneously generated figures emerged from shadows to romp past us.

Apparently, I had missed the most manic partying as it had torn through the city the day after the Battle of Kerneghi Gorge. From Norburg to Midtown, West Side to Easterly End, the sprawl of Hylium had filled with wave after wave of near-riot celebrations. According to what I had overheard, the city's Civil Militia had spent a full night working just as hard as the day the capitol had erupted into panic at the news of the Protectorate incursion.

They apparently never did anything half-assed, these folk of Hylium.

Given the citizens' apparent predilection to burst into fiesta at the slightest provocation, I had no doubt that further – hopefully more manageable – revelry now filled the streets of Hylium proper. Ensconced as the Isle of Kings was within the waters of Lake Hylia, it was difficult to tell what was going on in the surrounding metropolis. Beyond the palace walls, only the red and amber watch-fires atop the city's highest towers were visible.

Here, though, a climate of festival reigned. The open spaces of the palace had become a milling fairground of drinking, joking, carousing, and impromptu performance. As the four of us marched with grim stoicism toward the central keep, we crossed paths with drunken couples, rushing servants, and off-duty guardsmen dancing gaudily between the manicured shrubberies. I detected wood smoke on the air and could just barely make out the glow of a cook fire on one of the distant, stately verandas.

They were a curious bunch, these garden partiers. I suspected that more than half of them were actually just idling between destinations – much as we were. With the grand occasion about to occur in the central keep, most of the palace's servants had been recruited to make sure everything went as planned. I had heard tell that even stable boys and maintenance workers had been roped into double-duty that night as porters, go-fers, messengers, and brute physical labor. Who, then, were these many dozens who strolled and danced about the night-licked grounds?

Surrendering to curiosity, I commented, "Geez. Ton of people out tonight."

Zelda didn't so much as shrug. "I suspect that many of them are from the retinues of the gathered Houses."

Ah. She had an answer for everything, Zelda did.

Children scurried everywhere. Some came over-bundled in cloaks and wrapped blankets, while others shot to and fro as bare-limbed as if it were high summer. Lavender ribbons were tied in their hair or about their forearms. They laughed raucously, chanted nonsense rhymes, and chased after one another in the midst of unknowable games.

The kids' play crossed borders of gender, ethnicity, and even species. Among their careening forms I spied what I was certain were the first juvenile gorons I'd yet seen in Hyrule. Runty, glitter-eyed creatures with pallid skin and greenish shells that appeared far more pliant than their parents'. Shiekah children with rhinestone eyes and incongruously huge ears flashed past like visions from a fairy tale.

Heck – I had to wonder if the flickers of neon light I beheld in the garden depths were fairy young . . . if there even were such a thing.

Over the hedgerows there came a sound of sibilant voices. Unseen men raised their voices in jaunty song.

"_Oh the boys of Kokiri are brave roaring blades  
>And if ever they meet with the nice little maids<br>They'll kiss them and coax them and spend their Rupees  
>Of all towns in Hyrule, Kokiri for me<br>And of all towns in Hyrule, Kokiri for me  
>Fal de ral de ral de ral de ral lal ra la la lo!<em>"

Rounding a corner of the walkway, we came upon the song's source: a trio of dapper-looking men in slightly rumpled suits and tricorner hats. They belted out the ditty in a style that could only be described as barbershop.

"_In the Town of Kokiri there runs a clear stream  
>In the Town of Kokiri there lives a pretty dame<br>Her lips are like roses, and her mouth much the same  
>Like a dish of fresh berries smother'd in cream<br>Fal de ral de ral de ral de ral lal ra la la lo!_"

None looked to be a professional singer – rather, it was as if three highborn friends had simply collided in a moment of spontaneous lyric. They lingered on the edge of a wide, open space waiting in the teeming heart of the palace grounds. It was a rolling parkland of pristine lawns, groves of groomed trees, and clusters of upright statuary. Stone and gravel pathways cut mandala patterns through it all. Upon this promenade milled an uncountable swarm of people.

I could tell that it wasn't so much the official site of the party as it was a de facto space into which wandering revelers had landed en masse. They lounged on blankets and shared food picnic-style. Others strolled idly upon the paths and beneath canopies of leaves still heavy with rainwater. In the hands of almost every adult (and, I couldn't help noting, a few of the kids) were gripped foam-rimmed mugs, dented tin flasks, and wooden goblets overflowing with burgundy and gold.

There loitered cooks, guards, handmaids, and valets. Aggressively garbed contractual mercenaries relaxed in the company of sages and seamstresses. Ambling through the crowd were ostentatious buskers and women bearing baskets of steaming food. A teenage boy in patchwork motley grinned intensely as he concentrated on the task at hand: juggling an array of apple-sized, silvery spheres. The objects whirled perfectly through the air. Each would flash a different, phosphorescent color at the apex of its ascent.

And the singers crowed:

"_Her eyes are as black as Kokiri's large coal  
>Which thro' my poor bosom have burnt a big hole<br>Her mind like its river is mild and pure  
>But her heart is more hard than its marble I'm sure<br>Fal de ral de ral de ral de ral lal ra la la lo!_"

Our passage through the spontaneous carnival produced a subdued wave of stares and harried whispers. I wondered if anyone would have outright approached me if the two guardsmen hadn't been giving everything in our path the stink-eye. As it was, I listened to the quiet chirp of, "It's him!" and, "Off to the big hoo-rah, no doubt," and, "I thought he'd be shorter, truth be told."

A pair of young boys dashed up beside us and began to keep pace with our deliberate strides. Both bore shaggy dark hair and immense, gap-filled grins. Neither could be more than seven- or eight-years-old.

"Sir Link! Sir Link!" they cried in tandem. "Teach us how to fight! Teach us!"

The legionary to my right growled, "Away with ya'!" He swatted the air above the children's heads and they took off cackling, out into the expanse of grass and shrubs.

Fully, forcefully, finally:

"_Kokiri's a pretty town and shines where it stands  
>And the more I think on it, the more my heart warms<br>For if I was in Kokiri I'd think myself home  
>For it's there I'd get sweethearts, but here I get none<br>Fal de ral de ral de ral de ral lal ra la la lo!_"

As we silently crossed the parkland, a new strain of sound joined the humming singers. First came the twang of strings, then the increasing bass urging of heavy drums. At another side of the promenade, beneath the feet of a robed figure wrought in granite, was a ragtag band of amateur musicians. Chief among them was a fellow who strummed an instrument that wasn't quite a sitar and wasn't quite a banjo. Beside him, a pair of young women crouched with hiked skirts and hair tied back. They pounded on big, rough hand drums that resembled homemade bongos. One bore hair the color of a robin's egg; the other, dyed skin like a ripe mandarin orange.

The man on the stringed instrument was so old that he could have been the great-grandfather of the girls slapping the drums. Nonetheless, his fingers nimbly skittered over the object of his present vocation. Its sound was at once whimsical and dolorous; lively and introspective. Whatever it was, the wizened fellow played it with effortless skill.

As for his accompaniment . . . well. Their enthusiasm outmatched their ability. However, after a short period of uneasy noodling, the old man began to match their full-bore rhythm. Their clomping, rollicking, jazzy music swept us from the gardens and on toward the high black walls of our destination.

The multitudinous, glowing windows of the Imperial Palace's central keep twisted above us. Amber candle- and lamplight crept about the building's columns, spires and crenellations. Shapes hurried within like glimpses of some otherworldly ant colony.

We approached one of the larger side-entrances to the keep, which lay up a short flight of stairs and was flanked by yet more legionaries in ceremonial attire. Torches snapped hungrily along the steps.

Before we could mount the entrance stoop and plunge into the baroque labyrinth of the keep, Zelda abruptly stopped. I turned to her with an abortive question on my lips. In the deepening darkness, it was difficult to make out her expression beneath the heavy cowl of her cloak. Her mouth was pursed in what looked like sudden thought.

Finally, the handmaiden gestured to our two confused escorts and said, "Gentlemen – if you do not mind following my lead, I shall show you a quicker route through the keep. No need to press against the crowds in the main corridors."

A flicker of hesitation passed between the two guardsmen. Then the legionary to Zelda's left said, "As you wish, Maid Imzadi."

Without missing a beat, Zelda did indeed take point. I now found myself in the increasingly familiar position of following her violet-edged shadow into spaces unknown. We took off across lawns and around the gray balustrades of garden walls, following the flank of the massive keep. The sounds of laughter and music slipped into muted, almost dreamlike murmurs.

We came to another entrance into the building – this one a huge, round portal lined with stairs that led downward past the castle's foundations. A whole goddamned squad of legionaries lingered about this doorway. They stood in functionally appropriate armor and appeared ready to take arms at any moment. It was obvious that wherever this entrance led, the heads of palace security didn't want any kind of riffraff getting in. These dozen-or-so armed men grunted in terse greeting as they saw us approach. Even though they let us take those uneven steps down into the cellar-depths, they watched even our escorts with wary discomfort.

Zelda led us through a bright receiving chamber, down an incredibly narrow adjoining hallway, and out into a vast undercroft. Here was a great, gloomy tunnel plunging off into the distance. Arches of sweating stone swept above us. The damp here crawled about my shoulders like an impatient cephalopod. Pale bubbles of lamplight illuminated the subterranean road in shimmering patches.

We were far from alone here, in this behind-the-scenes space of the keep. Disembodied voices echoed down the basement byway. As Zelda hurried us along, doors on either side of the passage opened to disgorge scurrying maids and stone-faced porters. Burly men with sacks and boxes pressed against their shoulders duck-jogged past us with brusque entreaties for us to move the hell out of the way.

Suddenly, Zelda took a hard right turn and pulled us into a brick alcove. Ahead of us, a pair of stocky young men in white uniforms tarried about a huge iron door. They passed the fraying remains of a hand-rolled cigarette back and forth. Both gazed at our approach with a sneer.

"Open it," Zelda hissed.

Both kids blanched at the iceberg implacability of her voice. One coughed, nodded shakily, and pulled open the door with considerable effort. A fragrant fist of hot air billowed out and slapped away all notions of the clammy night beyond the keep's walls. Zelda was on the move even before the door was fully open. I followed as if on an invisible leash.

Into a heart of steam and smoke we strode. A din so tumultuous it rattled my brain senseless. Tens of voices scrambled rowdily, slipping and pressing over one another in a futile struggle for dominance. Pots and pans and steins and spoons crashed together in an idiot symphony. Here was the furious _thwop _of dough slapped against a butcher's block; there was the irate sizzle of batter as it met a hot griddle. A place of furious, beautiful chaos.

I had no idea that the Imperial Palace's kitchens were such a mad, gigantic place. This was a dukedom of ovens like blast furnaces and stoves like open forges. In the shrouded walls were grand fireplaces, each filled with glowing coals that must have been burned down from bonfires. Within these piles of blazing embers there waited cast iron pots and Dutch ovens massive enough to feed whole army regiments.

Delicate-looking men wielded knives and cleavers with the grace of assassins. Women with arms like knotted cordwood piled loaf after loaf onto open platters. In one alcove, a pair of weathered old women pulled squirming octorocks from casks of water. The shelling instruments in their hands were like medieval implements of torture.

Sweat ran openly on every brow. The cooks wore masks of smeared flour and wood ash. Nearly every expression was as grave as if the kitchen were preparing for war.

A short, gnarled man moved through it all shrieking commands. His eyes were like a rabid animal's and his chef's whites were spattered with blood and sauce. When he caught sight of our movement through the titanic kitchen, he appeared ready to howl like an enraged dog. Then – perhaps at some unseen signal from Zelda – the wildly gesticulating little man stilled, calmed, and then smiled delightedly. He called out, "Maid Imzadi! And Sir Olsen, I presume! You know that I don't let just anyone wander through my kitchens!"

Without stopping, Zelda shouted back, "Aye, Mister Temal! I beg your pardon – we run late for the banquet!"

Cooks' faces turned to follow both the exchange and our progress. The sudden appearance of interlopers was apparently a rare occasion indeed.

Temal – who I would later learn had long been the master of the Imperial Palace's main kitchens – cackled, "Do as you must, Miss Imzadi! I will, however, soon enough require a favor in return!"

Zelda simply shook her head and pressed forward between the carving blocks, spitted carcasses, and roaring towers of flame. I caught the barest sliver of a smile cross her taciturn face.

It appeared that both of our escorts had never been in this portion of the keep before, as they seemed just as flabbergasted as I was by the scope of the place. All three of us goggled at the size of the ovens and the heap upon heap of food that they produced.

Zelda called over her shoulder, "Do hurry along, Sir Olsen."

"Yes, mother."

"_Really_, Sir Olsen."

Sometimes I truly did think that the woman was made of marble. _You_ try to walk through a nigh-tactile wall of such wonderful odors and not slow down. I waded through a sea of searing beef, roasting fish, crisping fowl, and slowly rising bread. Piles of pastries fragrant with fruit and meat passed within inches of my saliva-soaked lips. Tall glass jars full of pickled carrots and olives were being uncorked in one corner. Ladles of spicy-smelling sauces poured over platters of rare beef. Great cauldrons muttered and bubbled, emitting plumes of steam so savory that to pass through them was to taunt my empty stomach mercilessly.

Unfortunately, even these small joys had to come to an end. Zelda's odd tour took us through a back door and into a passageway so cool it felt arctic after the seething kitchens. How many fucking basements could this place actually have?

Many, it turned out. _Many_.

Through another formidable set of doors and down a slip of crumbling stairs. Now there came a cloud of odor both stupendous and nauseating – an oak-lined tempest of fumes that stirred within me both yearning and revulsion. Rich, sour, sharp, and just slightly rotten.

An earthen chill saturated this new place. It was a dark, vast, candlelit gallery. Ancient pillars held up low ceilings of tessellated brick.

Buried among the damp stones of this particular catacomb were so many casks and kegs that a man might drink them for a lifetime and never reach their end. Granted – given the contents of those barrels, bottles, jars, and vats – this theoretical man's lifetime might not be very long at all.

Evidence of their contents floated on the air like a fog. The rancid acidity of spilled beer. Wine so sour the smell of it puckered my tongue. The sting of a dozen liquors mixed together so thickly it was almost intoxicating just to breathe.

Like a grim-eyed order of monks, a cadre of servants moved through this fantastic mausoleum. Their arms and backs were pressed down with sloshing cargo. I watched as two men – a brawny, black-skinned goron and a guy like a human stick-insect – rolled a wine cask the size of a hippo down an intervening aisle of the undercroft.

I began to wonder whether this route was actually a shortcut, or if it was simply a way for Zelda to hammer home how much labor was going into the event.

The handmaiden's already relentless pace doubled. We passed through the gray purgatory of the wine cellar so quickly that it felt like a hallucination once we had mounted the stairs leading out. Despite the cool weather, I felt sweat slicking the back of my neck. The narrow steps curved upward through gloom and cobwebs. Ahead of me, Zelda abruptly pushed through a door so small I hadn't even noticed it.

When I followed – our escorts puffing and cursing quietly behind me – my eyes flooded with bright, golden light. I found myself in one of the exquisite main arteries of the central keep. Floors of freshly polished marble resounded beneath my boots. The warm glow of lit chandeliers and wall-mounted lamps bathed everything in near-daylight.

I glanced behind me as the perspiring guardsmen heaved their way up the last few steps. It turned out that the door to the stairwell actually molded seamlessly with the smooth white walls of the hallway. When shut, the door was all but invisible to a casual observer.

"Goddamn!" I muttered. "That really _was_ a fucking shortcut."

"Come along, please," Zelda's voice echoed.

Man, keep your frilly purple panties on.

I turned to find my attendant's violet eyes staring daggers at us. She gestured impatiently with a lithe, gloved hand. Down the corridor we tromped. We didn't have far to go.

At the end of that hallway waited a pair of great, burled double doors. From behind this formidable entrance seeped the susurrus of hundreds of mingling voices. Silent guardsmen lined the hall like silver idols.

Zelda sashayed past me and pressed her palms together before our escorts. With flat cordiality, she said, "Many thanks to you, gentlemen. You may take your leave now."

Thus, the two men – still panting from Zelda's taskmaster pace and the weight of their armor – said terse goodbyes and peeled off. Just Zelda and I stood before the doors and under the unnervingly quiet gaze of their sentinels.

The Shiekah handmaiden stepped to my side and brushed some unseen bit of lint from my shoulder. With exacting fingers, she tightened the fresh linen of the sling supporting my left arm. I endured her ministrations with resigned amusement. At last, she stared point-blank into my eyes. Her jeweled gaze bored into me like an awl.

"Are you truly ready, Sir Olsen?"

I said, "You keep asking that. Are you worried that I'm going to fart in front of the King or something?"

(Truth be told, I was kind of worried about that exact possibility.)

Zelda let a sphinx-like smile play about the corners of her mouth. "All of Hyrule's nobility waits for you in that room, Linus. Most men would be made nervous by that."

"And if I am?"

She said, "Know that I am here to aid and serve you tonight. I can assist you with anything you need"

Well, there were certainly enough of those. I shrugged as best I could, sending a tepid ache through my left shoulder. "Okay," I said. "Let's do this thing."

Zelda nodded, reached into the folds of her voluminous garments, and produced a small silver bell. With a delicate flick of her wrist, she rang it three times. Ah – the familiar cricket chime. I knew that somewhere past those doors, a twin of that alchemically created instrument was ringing in tandem.

A strong, confident voice cried out incomprehensibly. The boiling mutter of the banquet hall began to subside.

Zelda murmured, "Do not fret. I will follow behind once the introduction is complete."

Yeah. Okay. Here goes nothing.

I heard the hinges of those doors begin to squeal. A crack of light grew between them. There was a creaking shudder as the immense wooden portal slowly opened.

I strode to the threshold. A dazzling star-field of lamplight unveiled itself as the doors swung wide. A gigantic, collective breath seemed to be held there.

A boom of staves on stone tile! A blast of curling horns! A haughty, familiar voice shouted like the herald of the gods!

"Ladies and gentlemen! Esteemed members of the Court and Council! I present to you Sir Linus Olsen the Link – Hero of the Goddesses!"

I swallowed what felt like a gulp of sand. My fingers scrambled tensely at the cravat about my neck. With a blink and a sigh, I started forth.

I stepped into the ballroom beyond as if I were diving into the inky, glacial surface of a flooded quarry.


	2. 2

**2**

Let's properly set the scene, shall we – just so you know the score:

Beyond those open doors lay the bright fastness of an immense ballroom. I had a sneaking suspicion that it was one of the gathering halls I had tromped through during my initial foray through the palace. It didn't particularly matter – the amount and ostentation of the night's ornaments rendered the place so unfamiliar it was almost alien.

The room had to be the size of a bloody football field. Its marble-tiled floor and vaulted, beam-ribbed ceiling resonated sounds with an almost diabolical brilliance. Though I entered the ballroom to expectant quiet, whispers and anxious breathing flitted through the air like bodiless shoals of minnows. At junctions along the ceiling were hung pyramidal chandeliers like crystalline bonfires. Each contained an uncountable array of shining glass lamps. The glow emanating from within was as golden as ethereal honey.

An unknown number of huge, almost indomitably solid tables sat atop the tiles. Some were arranged with chairs and place settings. Others were already heaped with an astounding array of foods, impossible to enumerate on that brief first glance. All I knew was that the sight of them made my stomach grumble so loudly it was as if it had decided to announce my arrival.

Scattered about the edges of the room were several-dozen guardsmen, standing still as statues. Their armor was of that gold-inlaid, vaguely ridiculous style all the ceremonial legionaries were wearing that night. Beneath the heavy visors of their great-helms, the guards' expressions were so impassive they may as well have been doped up on valium. Even as I – that oh-so-important man of the minute – entered, not a one of the sentinels reacted.

As large as that room looked, _holy __shit_ was it packed to the seams with people. They crowded about the laden banquet tables and slid along the cream-colored walls. They clustered in brightly colored packs and pods. Murders of crow-black suits milled every which way.

(I suppose that I should take a moment to describe the cut of Hylian suits, since I continue to mention the damned things and haven't bothered to actually set out their appearance. After all, men's suits have varied spectacularly over the years – why should it be any different in Hyrule?

At the time I officially entered Hylian society, those suits consisted of coat, tightly fitted trousers, extravagantly baggy undershirt, and a cut-off vest that was more tunic than vest. The tail of the outer coat was long and tapered, coming to a point just below my bony buttocks. Only the coat had a collar. This rose in an unfolded battlement that stretched halfway up the neck. No one in Hyrule had ever heard of a standard or even bow tie. It was cravats every time, all the time.)

This provides a decent segue into establishing what was coming through the doors, as opposed to what waited beyond them. Namely: me.

All those staring faces now got a good, long look at Sir Linus Olsen the Link – six feet tall, grayish of skin, and with dust-blue eyes sunk deeper in my skull than ever in the entirety of my life. My left arm sat useless in the clean white embrace of a fresh sling, which hid layers of padding and salve-soaked compresses. That brittle blonde hair of mine had recently seen a thorough trimming. As pallid as I was, the jagged whip of scar tissue beneath my left eye still stood out like a splash of off-white paint. Its little brother curled sullenly over my triangular nose. (Those days, I couldn't look into a mirrored surface without the jarring thought that a booger was sitting on the tip of my schnoz, and I would go to brush the scar away irritably before realizing my mistake).

This awkwardly sauntering knight was dressed in a newly commissioned suit of the previously mentioned Hylian variety. I padded in on fresh boots of soft black leather. The vest between my coat and crisp white shirt was a shade of sea-foam green – the kind of color I probably would not have been caught dead in during my previous life, but felt somehow welcoming here in Hyrule. My cravat (patiently – so patiently – tied by Zelda an hour before) was as oil-black as my jacket and trousers.

I was still a sorry sight, but at least there was a whiff of effort about me.

Despite the fancy duds, I wore the Master Sword at my hip. I suspected that I would be far from the only guest attending the banquet armed. There was a war on, after all.

At my back waited Zelda al-Imzadi – my assigned handmaiden, attendant, and in-all-but-name-only road manager. Befitting the gala occasion, Zelda had foregone her usual drab, utilitarian garments for the deep purple cloak and gown she had worn at the audience where we first met. Though she wore no more ornamentation than the usual pretension of elbow-length gloves, Zelda did bear a curious bit of decoration: a small, diamond-shaped design painted on her right cheekbone in a faded purple ink. The symbol was divided by two horizontal lines and reminded me a bit of the henna "tattoos" I had seen some college girls dab upon their palms.

While Zelda had frowned and clucked over my appearance in the run-up to our departure from the Guest Wing, I had asked her about the design.

"It is a veve," she had sighed.

I had said, "Okay. Humor me and pretend that I don't actually know what that means."

The handmaiden had taken a moment to inspect the tail of my suit jacket before answering. "Traditional Shiekah paint the veve to express any number of events, emotions, and life changes. It was once practiced at all times, but it has fallen out of general favor. Some orthodox Shiekah still wear the veve every moment of their lives. I indulge in the practice only on special occasions."

"Like tonight?"

"Of course."

"So," I ventured, "does the verve –"

"_Veve_."

"Whatever. Does the symbol mean anything specific?"

Her intense, foreign eyes flashed my way. As much as I had become used to this strange woman's company, her expressions were still nearly impenetrable to me. Zelda said, "Each design is unique and, yes, symbolizes something quite specific. Placement upon the face is also quite meaningful. It is very complicated – which is probably fair reason why the tradition has fallen out of favor with most young Shiekah."

"So, like, for example – what does yours mean tonight?"

"This?" Zelda shrugged. She breathed deep and said flatly, "It is a common symbol of servants. It denotes pride in duty."

"Really?" I said, genuinely incredulous.

"Yes."

"That's it?"

"Indeed."

I'm not sure what I had expected. For whatever reason, there was something oddly portentous about the bruise-colored symbol when I had first glimpsed it. It gave me a sense of foreboding I couldn't remotely explain.

Naturally, I had forgotten all about it as I set off for the banquet.

Despite the obvious effort she had put into dressing the part, the Shiekah handmaiden lingered just out of eyeshot of the gathered throng. Apparently, she was taking the subservient role quite seriously tonight – even if I would never quite get the hang of that dynamic. Like I mentioned, Zelda was more of a manager than a handmaiden. That she had to show deference to me felt like an unwarranted inversion of our roles.

As I fully entered the ballroom, I was able to get a better look at the actual members of the waiting crowd. It wasn't really a good idea to do so – actually figuring out who was attending this shindig made me want to turn on my heels and head straight back to my quarters.

Every noble family was represented. I had known this intellectually (having been reminded as such more times than I could count), but as they say, seeing is believing. Here were all the high-born families of Hyrule, from the mightiest territorial governors to minor-but-intimidating families like the Shimshars. Their Lords wore sashes from shoulder to midsection in the proprietary colors of their Houses. The blunt, be-whiskered form of Lord Eldin was wrapped in soft green. Renaldo Baeleus sported a sash of deepest red over his otherwise militaristic regalia. His scowl seemed eternal and indestructible. A bow-legged, mustachioed fat man in autumnal gold must have been Lord Chovo. Others in even more obscure colors stood out like warning signals.

I knew that a contingent of zora nobility waited somewhere among the crowd. Was that one of them? I thought I had caught a glimpse of blue-gray flesh.

Such a brief moment of inspection yielded little. No time for serious detail work.

Try as I might, I couldn't make out any of the members of House Lon. Had they made it tonight? Would they? I felt a flush of panic that I might not be able to take shelter in the ranching clan's welcome company.

For all the anxiety the gathered nobility evoked in me, they were only the beginning. The instant my eyes began their addled journey over the stew of impassive faces, I picked out the round head and aquiline nose of Count Fletcher – the rich-but-eccentric man who had hosted the Lons and I the night before we entered Hylium. If he was here, that meant that other non-aristocratic men of means were also about. Many of them, if the sheer density of the party was any indication.

Top men of the various sorcerous, alchemic, and industrial guilds milled throughout the crowd. They came in uniforms eclectic even for the bizarre fashion sensibilities of Hylium. The loud green suits and neon-orange shakos I recognized, but there were others that I hadn't yet seen. A short, stooped man wore a cloak of rough sackcloth and a nearly featureless, full-face mask that reminded me uncomfortably of The Bishop. There was a cluster of women of varied ages whose hairdos were all dyed silver and whose billowing gowns were blue when I entered the room – but soon bled indigo, then plum, then black, then mist-gray. And so on. It was hard not to stare at the uncanny garments as they shifted through ever-more-fantastical shades and patterns.

With the guilds in mind, I nervously scanned the crowd for Shad, of the Guild of Strangers. On my first pass, I didn't see him. Thank God.

No – wait. Shit. In point of fact, Shad _was_ there in the banquet hall. Cascading light slipped over the thick lenses of his spectacles. He loitered near the mysterious man (or woman, I supposed) in the ivory mask. The alchemist's brow was knitted and his eyes followed me warily.

Well. There was one guy I'd be avoiding for the duration of the party.

Yet others drew my all-too-short inspection with their bombastic or simply novel appearances. Pulsating orbs of fairy light bobbed above the crowd's shoulders. Some of the hovering creatures trailed satin ribbons or bore the odd silhouettes of customized clothing. Shiekah women of all ages wore elaborate, sari-like body-wraps and bore facial veves so huge and complex that they made Zelda's look like a child's afterthought. Gorons ranging from small and shrunken to burly bruisers rambled at the edges of the assembly.

Despite the high pomp and circumstance of the night, the room did not belong only to the rich and powerful. This grand, nearly unprecedented banquet had been scheduled for the day of my knighting ceremony, but had actually been declared, "In honor of all the heroes of Kerneghi." As such, many other knights – and even a select few common soldiers – had also been invited. Still, I couldn't kid myself – I would likely be the main attraction tonight. Even as this thought passed through my mind, I was wondering whether I had already started to let my ego get the better of me.

Most men of the military bore heavily starched, stiff-collared gray uniform coats and hairstyles that one could diagram to the millimeter. They stood out from the crowd of wealthy landowners and administrators like wolves in a dog park.

This was all background noise to what was truly pressing – that most important and simultaneously enigmatic of my benefactors: Nearly front and center stood King Daphnes Harkinian himself. Huge and gallant, he waited in an exquisitely tailored suit of shimmering charcoal. Beneath his collar peeked the dark purple loops of a cravat. Even without a crown, he was just as impressive and imposing a sight as he had been earlier that day, when he had lifted my sword to the heavens and proclaimed me a knight of the Royal Legions. The moment I locked eyes on him, the King grinned as if welcoming home a long-absent relative.

That only left a few of the familiar crew of fiends and bandits to scope out. The Prime Minister no doubt lurked somewhere further out in the crowd. Same with the High Sage and High General, whose absence was slightly unnerving. That only left . . .

Ah – there she was, lingering some feet from her father: Crown Princess Ilia Harkinian. Twelve years old. Small and sickly. Eyes like venomous tide pools. It struck me that I was probably seeing her for the first time with her pale blonde hair uncovered. The flossy length of it was pulled back from her forehead in a manner that was almost vampiric. In stark contrast to the generally bright and lively colors adorning the women in the room, the Princess slouched in what could only be described as a Doom Gown. Predominantly black, striped with tombstone gray, and fringed with seams of Harkinian purple that were at once complimentary and resentful. If it weren't for the expensive cut of her clothes and the Hylian shape of her ears, one might easily mistake Ilia for a Goth kid hanging out in front of the local middle school.

It was notable that she was – so far as I could tell – the only child in the room. I wondered if it was simply expected that the heir to the throne – no matter how young – would attend such occasions. Was that a stab of pity I was feeling for the girl? All it took was a quick recall of our last conversation to wave _that_ shit away.

At the Crown Princess's shoulder were the quick green eyes and Mona Lisa smile of Daia Kiltain, the handmaiden who was filling in for Zelda while the Shiekah served at my side. Every time I had seen her, Maid Kiltain looked like she was holding in a particularly amusing secret.

It's fascinating how much can happen in fractions of seconds. In the time it had taken me to notice the Princess and her handmaiden, High General Eldridge's considerable mass had somehow roved out between the milling Counts and nobles. He came to a stop beside Renaldo Baeleus. The High General gripped a large clay stein in one hand. Rosy patches across his cheeks spoke to a bit of pre-gaming on his part. As I watched him slurp audibly at his drink, another grim figure materialized next to him – General Tolskai, the head of the Third Legion.

The Generals stood like three alabaster idols, staring in mute judgment over all they surveyed. When their cold eyes crossed mine, even a blind man could sense their body language constricting like a sprained ligament.

As loath as I was to admit it, I couldn't blame them for their reaction. I hadn't given them much justification to trust me in recent days. When I should have probably continued any number of charades and kept a few vital secrets to myself, I had instead knuckled under and put everything out on the table. God help me.

Another diversion, begging your patience.

Two days before, in a cramped and smoke-lit chamber of the Imperial Palace, I had attended a meeting. Not so much a "meeting," actually – more like a debriefing.

It had begun like this:

"I need to come clean about a few things."

This was no conference room in the Tower of Sight. It was a rank, windowless, subterranean place. A room where so many candles had been burned over so many years that the even the brickwork smelled like old wax.

I perched in a painfully rigid chair at the far edge of an almost bureaucratically practical table. A half-dozen other men loomed about me. Already gathered for the impending festivities, they had been summoned suddenly to the meeting. Most wore expressions of cautious dread. All were prime movers of Hyrule's military establishment. In the flickering candle-glow the visages of Prime Minister Ramarji, High General Eldridge, General Baeleus, General Tolskai, and a gaunt, nameless royal scribe were ashen and funereal. Seated directly across from me, King Harkinian leaned low over the table, his hands steepled before him.

The gathering had been a foregone conclusion. If anything, I had expected it – or something like it – to occur much earlier. I arrived in Hylium to a conflicting hurricane of rumors regarding just what it was I had done in the Battle of Kerneghi Gorge. Most grossly overestimated my importance to the war effort. They were tales of mighty stands against overwhelming odds and epic duels with Ganon himself. Zelda glibly shared other stories – ones that asserted that I had actually made a deal with the Protectorate generals to hand them Hylian lands.

Thus, it was no surprise when I was called upon to officially sort everything out.

I had been escorted through so many passages, winding stairways, and dank undercrofts that I wasn't actually certain whether I was still in the palace itself. All the while, I girded my loins, swallowed my pride, and finally decided that I simply needed to tell the unvarnished truth.

I gave them almost everything. The only detail I left out was the fact that the Mark of the Goddesses was a tattoo. After everything else that I revealed that afternoon, it felt like that – of all things – might end up queering the deal.

First and foremost, I explained that Los Angeles and all its neighboring kingdoms did not occupy "the far side of the world." Laboriously, I gave a superficial explanation of Earth's total exploration, the existence of different planets, and the idea of extrasolar worlds – all concepts I had only a high school understanding of in the first place.

Among all the men gathered, the King seemed least fazed by the revelation. He simply nodded as if in cordial agreement and said, "In days past, Saharasla theorized the existence of other worlds – other creations of the goddesses – hidden among the stars. It was an intriguing notion to a boy with his head already in the clouds. Never did I think that anything would actually come of it!"

Less well-received was the news that the Protectorate had more or less thrown the fight at Kerneghi. A great bulk of the gathering was spent grilling me over and over again on whether or not I had misheard the Inner Council's deliberation on its army's forced retreat. These men of power were just as mystified as I was that Ganon had not pressed his obvious advantage. It also darkened the mood surrounding my supposed heroism. Even Daphnes Harkinian regarded me warily as I repeatedly delivered the details behind the Protectorate's sudden abandonment of the battlefield.

Despite my misgivings, I even told them the truth about the origin of the Inner Council. As expected, this produced a gloriously hyperbolic rainbow of reactions.

"Madness!" whispered a clearly haunted General Tolskai.

General Baeleus had let loose a wordless, wild-dog snarl of outrage.

The King and his Prime Minister brooded silently, as if having received a vision of their own impending deaths.

High General Eldridge had unleashed the most explosive of replies. "Impossible!" he bellowed, his round face cherry-red and incandescent with sweat. "This 'other world' you claim to hail from sounds as savage as the bokoblin lands. How could a handful of people from a place so backward possibly be at the heart of this insurrection?"

In a droll deadpan, Prime Minister Rauru said, "I agree, High General. How indeed could mere primitives defeat the Royal Legions in open battle? Why, next it will be suggested that such unlearned savages might be able to _conquer __one-third __of __our __kingdom_."

Eldridge shot Rauru a particularly poisonous look.

In the intervening silence, King Harkinian gazed at me levelly. Dark brown lines of worry and oppressive thought ran from the edges of his eyes. He asked, "Answer me truthfully, Linus: Is Hyrule being invaded by men of your world? Are we at war with this Earth?"

Though I really couldn't say as such conclusively, I went with my gut for the answer. I shook my head slowly and said, "No, your majesty. I'm almost certain that the five members of the Council are the only ones. Other than me, I mean." I swallowed dryly and continued, "In fact, I think that's kind of the point."

Any eye that wasn't already fixed upon me did so now. Everyone in the dim little room waited for me to continue.

Did I really believe the next part? It was difficult to say, given my eternally stunned disposition in those swift days of travel and painful physical recovery. The idea had certainly pinballed about my head incessantly throughout that period.

Hesitantly, I said, "I think that this is why I was chosen. By the goddesses, I mean. I may have heard it incorrectly, but I think their leader –"

"This 'Latigo' you mentioned?" Renaldo Baeleus interrupted.

"Right," I barreled on. "Well, I think that he said that Ganon recruited people from Earth because they were immune to the cycles of Fate in Hyrule. Or something like that. Look at it like that, and it makes sense – when Ganon tried to side-step everything by bringing in powerful outsiders, the goddesses might have side-stepped with him."

"And chose _you _as the Hero?" Rauru chuffed.

"Yeah. Maybe. Probably."

Even Baeleus seemed to recline to consider this. Every man at the table seemed to contemplate the much darker scope and texture of the emerging picture. When their eyes flitted to me, they were full of doubt and half-suppressed dread.

Eventually, General Baeleus placed his palms upon the table and cleared his throat. He pronounced, "In light of all of this new information, we cannot possibly go forward with this proposed ceremony."

Harkinian perked up from behind his clasped fingers – a movement that reminded me of a lion shuffling up to sniff at passing prey. "Why ever not?" he asked coolly.

Just short of aghast, Baeleus choked, "Why, your majesty! If – and I must emphasize, _if_ – what this man says is true, it means that his own kin lead the attack on our nation. More than ever, we must be certain of Mister Olsen's true worth and intentions!"

"Renaldo . . ." General Tolskai said laconically. "He was very nearly killed in battle while trying to save Hylian lives."

Picking up the chorus, Rauru said, "And though the information he has shared today comes too late for my liking, I believe that Mister Olsen had legitimate reasons for withholding it. Were he truly compromised, he never would have told us the identities of these men."

And woman, I thought bitterly. My left arm ached as if in reply.

General Baeleus ran a hand through his tawny hair and growled, "Yes, yes. And I know that all of you deride my doubts. Be that as it may, I believe that an occasion of this magnitude – something performed but a handful of times in known history – should be at least postponed until we know more. Such an august honor should not be handed out so lightly."

"I agree," rumbled Harkinian. His iceberg-blue eyes locked onto Baeleus. The King said, "Rest assured, General, that I have considered the matter thoroughly. It is with only the gravest consideration that I came to this decision. These are extraordinary times."

Ever since the debriefing had begun, I had noticed that the usual petulant fight in General Baeleus's demeanor was largely absent. Instead, a kind of resigned exhaustion exuded from him like a miasma. His eyes were dull, dark-rimmed, and slightly sunken. Though he looked as if he wanted to press his position, the General suddenly wilted under the King's gaze.

"As you command, your majesty," Baeleus murmured.

"Now," the King said rather more cheerily, "tell us once more about the rescue of the scout. It is particularly enjoyable."

So the ceremony had proceeded. And after that, the appointed night of feasting and feting. It was only after all that came next that I realized how much of an arrow I had dodged.

But at that moment, there I was: walking at what felt like a goddamn tree sloth's pace beneath the gaze of those same men who had learned these darkest of secrets.

At last, the crowd produced a reaction beyond polite goggling. It wasn't quite the classic Slow Clap per se, but it began sporadically and with some sense of reluctance. Earlier that day, some of these men and women met my knighthood with applause that bordered on the rapturous. Now – in the chambers of Hyrule's mightiest upper echelons – my entrance produced a rather more restrained response. Not so much thunder as the passage of a sheet of late spring rain.

The King spread his hands and smiled at my approach. "Sir. Linus. Olsen." He pronounced the words with a curious mixture of gravity and affection. Each syllable resounded through the chamber like a miniature proclamation.

When I stopped before him, Daphnes Harkinian grasped my elbow with a grip like oak. He pressed me about in order to properly present me to the entirety of the crowd.

The King bellowed, "Ladies and gentlemen of Hyrule. My fine Lords of the Council. Distinguished guests and honored heroes. Now this . . . _this _is a man. The man we have truly been waiting for. Were it not for this man, I sincerely doubt that tonight would be one of such joy and celebration."

Did he really? The King _seemed_ genuine in his praise – just as he had during the ceremony – but I couldn't help but remember that he knew the truth behind the victory at Kerneghi Gorge.

Whatever, dude. Just roll with it for now.

Harkinian continued, "Now that the guest of honor has arrived, I officially welcome you all to this wonderful occasion. Tonight we toast Sir Olsen and all the other men of the Royal Legions who gave their all to stem the tide of Ganon's vile offensive. At Kerneghi Gorge, the brave soldiers of Hyrule turned back the tide. Some of them stand tall among you tonight. They deserve your thanks and blessings.

"Know this: Tonight – though we honor the heroes of Hyrule both living and passed – is to be a night of good cheer and rejoicing. Take pleasure in the bounty of my house and the company of your distinguished peers.

"Supper shall be served within the hour. Followed, of course, by music and dancing courtesy of our very own Sir Hieronymus Kent. In the meantime, please enjoy the frankly astounding spread of refreshment prepared by our fine kitchens. As this is the first time in many years that so many of you have been able to join us at once, I encourage you to reacquaint yourself with old friends and strive to make new ones. All are welcome and appreciated within my house."

Another round of muted applause emerged from the assembled gentry.

I had been so intent on following Harkinian's speech that I didn't even notice that he had continued to hold onto my arm throughout its entirety. Now he let go and instead pressed his massive palm into the small of my back, urging me forth into the main body of the party.

"Eat! Drink! Be joyful!" the King shouted.

At once, two-dozen figures surged forward to greet me. Counts and unknown lordlings eager to meet the alien man who seemingly had caught their monarch's favor.

I was borne along by a human riptide. It took me straight into the heart of this gilded maelstrom.


	3. 3

**3**

Oh, how strange those first minutes were.

The initial crush of greetings and elbow pumps was somehow simultaneously polite and utterly manic. It was also – as I observed only later, in a daze – not made up of the traditional aristocracy. These were men and women unaffiliated with the noble Houses of Hyrule – or, at the very least, only tangentially related. These were Counts, Countesses, aging knights, civic leaders, nouveau riche, fanboy academics, and mid-level bureaucrats who had probably scored the victory of a lifetime by getting an invitation to this soiree. They pressed into me with almost outlandish consideration. Each man took his turn to excitedly splay fingers over my elbow. Every woman – no matter how young or old – curtsied with exaggerated deference. My right arm slapped up and down so many times it grew sore.

I remember almost none of the names breathed heavily into my slack face. Sir Gyrol, Count Everly, Count Drummond, Countess Romkan, Miss Lin Lepshear (of the Norburg Lepshears, I was assured), Count Jermaine. May as well have been Count Chocula for all I understood or cared.

I do remember:

A startling backwash of perfume and eau de cologne. Rosewater-scented fingers pressed against my forearm. Tobacco heavy as compost on wagging tongues.

The fashionable Hylium trend of alchemically dyed hair and skin was far from absent here. A merchant Count who greeted me enthusiastically as, "Sir Link sir!" sported hair that I suspect was intended to be a reclaimed blonde, but instead was the color of a child's drawing of a lemon. One woman – about my age, but twice my weight – showed off skin like raspberry jam and hair the color of pickle relish.

Every sort of accent flopped against my ears. Hylium's pseudo-sophisticated sluggishness; provincial drawls; Great Bay's nonsensical contractions; the clicky, stolid staccato of Oloro gorons. Even the static-tinged, frustratingly Californian cadence used by fairies as they mimicked my mother tongue.

Soon after the deluge of voices began, I looked down to find that a beautifully shaped silver goblet had appeared in my hand. My wavering, blood-tinged reflection stared back from the wine pooled within.

Well, that was certainly convenient.

Further inspection found the wine cool, tart, and tinged with a flavor that was almost like cherries. I would soon find that it also had a ram-like effect on an empty stomach. Within moments of its consumption, I was cultivating a healthy buzz.

Despite my blooming inebriation, the introductions kept coming. At least I wouldn't have to take off my jacket to show off the supposed Mark of the Goddesses. For the time being, that particular ritual was off-limits. Everything proceeded with precipitous momentum – then ebbing inexorably – and finally tapering off into vague, half-nervous pleasantries. Their strained formality increased by the elbow-shake.

I barely stepped an inch from the spot the King had shoved me into in those first ten (or thousand, it felt) minutes. In that time, it wasn't difficult to see a distinct downward trend in the crowd's reaction to me. After the ecstatic opening volley of introductions, things became decidedly more and more subdued. Cautious, even. Though the full import of the behavior didn't strike me all at once, I was coming to a realization about the circle into which I had been dropped.

I won't lie: I did not grow up poor.

Dad was a chief hydrological engineer in a region obsessed with irrigation. Mom was a paralegal who managed a pool of other paralegals – all of whom worked for a prosperous civil law firm. Neither profession paid peanuts. We were well-off my entire life.

As such, I don't really remember wanting for much while I was kid. Sure, every child desires fantastical shit that they'll never get or will have to save up to buy for themselves. However, the basics came without fail. I never missed a meal; there was always a cable subscription; there was never a question that I would be able to go to college if I wanted to.

I remember only a single period of budget crisis, when Dad lost his job in St. Paul. It was only a couple of months until he landed his dream gig in Los Angeles – a job he would work until his death – and I recall those weeks as tense but optimistic. My parents made it clear that we would have to give up amenities if Dad's unemployment lasted long, but it's not as if we went immediately to buying secondhand clothes and Ramen noodles.

In fact, I only got acquainted with the concept of scraping by after I dropped out of college – an idea that only struck home after bold threats from utility companies and a few rather hungry nights alone. Until that point, money concerns were as foreign to me as Dia de los Muertos.

All this said, I didn't really know wealth – true, landed, generational, implacable money – until I stood in that ballroom and attempted to hobnob with Hyrule's upper crust. Theirs was an existence that I could imagine, but did not actually _understand _until I stood next to it and absorbed its careless, indolent effluence.

My family had lived in unpresuming style of the American upper-middle class – where the affectations of being moneyed meant a three-car garage, vacations in places like the Florida Keys and Cabo San Lucas every two years, and a giant television in a basement recreation room. It was undeniably a slick, privileged existence. Nonetheless, it did not have the sense of ostentation, frivolousness, and complete lack of self-awareness that I came to associate with the immense inherited fortunes of Hyrule. I'm certain that I could have found all of this back on Earth, among the super-rich heirs of steel corporations and the blue-blooded pseudo-aristocracy of New England. Nonetheless, this was my first time dealing with it in person, and the culture shock was immediate and more or less unpleasant.

An example:

One old woman in a zaftig gown – Countess Something-or-Another – approached me first with a smile fit for a day at the fair. When she came close, her expression more or less imploded. She made a sound that I could only approximate as, "Aiow!" Then, clearly flustered, the crone hyperventilated, "You truly are a foreigner! I had thought that a base rumor!"

"Yep," I smiled. "Not from around here. Still settling in."

She completely failed to hide a sneer. "I had certainly _hoped_ that the Hero was Hylian, but I suppose you will have to do. Better a man of base beginnings to deal with those _awful_ snouts. There is place for all men, I always say."

I let out a stilted, "Hahaha!" and sipped wine like it might magically teleport me someplace – anyplace – else.

The old woman sniffed and grimaced, "Very, ah, fine to meet you, Sir Olsen. I am sure that you are a credit to your people." Her red-rimmed eyes skated over my ears as if they were open plague sores. An attempt at a parting smile was a disgusted rictus.

So it went – sometimes subtly, at others not so much at all.

They treated me with all the outer courtesy one expects of a war hero, but I couldn't shake the feeling that many of the attendees saw me as an invasive sort of vermin. Perhaps word of my initial social face-plants at the royal audience had made the rounds. I had, after all, acted a bit like a barbarian. More than a bit.

It was actually a similar experience to that bygone banquet in Oloro Town – gaggles of well-dressed, well-fed faces speaking around me rather than to me. Sometimes the treatment smacked of classism, but there was also the sense that the guests were simply avoiding something suspicious – perhaps even grotesque.

However much this irked me, I couldn't really blame them. I was a weird, gaunt foreigner with a scarred face and an accent like a chipped hatchet edge. At my hip, I wore a sword that most gathered there knew only from children's tales and folk legends. Even if they openly appreciated my supposed achievements as a soldier, to see me in person must have been to behold the pinnacle of freakdom. It didn't help that I initially navigated the ballroom floor with all the confident grace of a shy college freshman at his first kegger.

And honestly? Thank God for all that. I hate to think of how things might have turned out if had come off as a dashing man-about-town instead of a fumbling troglodyte. Funny how things work out like that.

I couldn't help but recall another important party – though it hadn't seemed important at all at the time. Another high occasion in which I immediately submerged my anxieties in alcohol. Shit. Compared to this, the house party at Jeff Ramirez's place had been a stroll down to the mailbox.

Eventually, the tide of seekers receded. From here on out, the elbow-tugs and introductions would have to be sought rather than passively received. I noted grimly that none of the Lords of the noble Houses had lined up to slip me their hand. If I wanted to get in a word with Lords Eldin, Lanayru, or Seamarch, I would have to present myself for their inspection. Good fucking luck.

Please oh please let me find the Lons, I thought. Just give me someone to latch onto while all this fucking ice breaks.

What about the King, for that matter? If ol' Daphnes was so eager to have me rub elbows with the aristocracy, why wasn't he helping me navigate this shit?

And where was Zelda? I was starting to feel like a child lost in a department store.

So many people filled the ballroom that it was all but impossible to pick out individuals from a single vantage point. Feeling a bit numb – and definitely tingly with wine – I set off through the now-indifferent throng in search of . . . well, anything or anyone I might use as an anchor.

Men who did not share their names nodded at my passing. "Sir Olsen," came the hesitant mutter. Cups and glasses rose in halfhearted salute. There were long stares and whispers behind cupped hands.

I navigated reefs of conversation and shoals of whispered gossip. Nearly every acknowledgment was polite but unwelcoming. Even with my height, it was impossible to see farther than a few yards ahead of me for all the heads, tall hats, and knobby shoulders. Rank tobacco smoke wafted through the gathering like wisps of sea-fog.

A bloated hand landed on my left shoulder so hard that I almost cried out in pain. I turned to see a man I did not recognize – wide, brawny, kettle-bellied, walrus-mustached. He brayed laughter and coughed, "Is that not right, Sir Olsen? Is it not?"

"Damn straight," I managed. Somehow, I summoned the hollow facsimile of a chuckle. "Absolutely."

"Jolly good!" the man bellowed. He turned away suddenly, back into the bowels of whatever exchange had precipitated the outburst. I had no idea who he was.

Servants holding glass flagons of wine crisscrossed the floor like curious remoras. One passed within reach and I waved him down. A dour-looking teenager in spotless tunic and a Prince Valiant bowel haircut. He poured ruby nectar into my waiting cup and was moving again before I could even thank him.

As I slurped at the refill, I caught a glimpse of a brilliantly red dress – an upturned hood – a silver chain. I stopped in my tracks, struck by a weary familiarity. The crimson figure vanished past a fence-line of alchemists in obnoxiously colored suits.

Huh.

Just as I was mentally prepping myself for a quick dash for the nearest exit, a miracle: From between a pair of burly legionary officers slipped a hint of red hair. A quiet, clipped drawl of, "Excuse me, gents!"

Then _she_ was there, just a few feet away, in one of those unoccupied circles of marble tile that opened in the crowd from time to time. Her dress was sky and cloud all in one. The smattering of freckles across her pale cheeks stood out all the more in the bright, dreamlike light of the ballroom's tall chandeliers.

As we locked eyes, Malora Lon smiled exuberantly. God, but the sight of her was like the beam of a lighthouse in a stormbound sea.

I raised my cup in greeting. Its contents sloshed irritably. "Hi," I said.

"Hello," she said.

For a moment, a bubble of giddy, expectant silence formed between us. Malora bobbled on her feet nervously. For all the swinging arms and yammering mouths and clopping boots surrounding us, at that moment it seemed like we could have been the only two people in the entire banquet hall. To my surprise, I was the first one to take a step in her direction. Malora matched it – and within a moment, we stood close enough to touch. We did not. The space between the two of us was so charged I half-expected static sparks to leap the distance.

That impish gleam slid across her smile. Malora slyly said, "You're even more of a frightful mess than the first time we met, Linus Olsen."

I grinned, "Oh, come on. So I'm not exactly my usual, handsome-ass self. You should know that I'm not really used to taking an axe to the arm and then having to sleep it off for eight days."

For a moment, Malora's expression shrank into one of abject horror. She appeared ready to sputter an apology. Eager to keep our reunion from going sour right off the bat, I swept the goblet over my frame as if introducing the grand prize on a game show. I chattered, "But hey – look at me now! I'm actually wearing a suit! I mean – seriously. Look at this dapper motherfucker right here."

Malora reddened and giggled at the same time. Whatever ugliness my initial comment had caused disappeared entirely. Mission accomplished.

"I am a bit pale though, huh?" I admitted.

Nodding, Malora said, "Oh, aye. Durin' your ceremony, I thought it was just a touch o' the nerves that was makin' you look so ghastly. Unless the sight o' all these nobs n' Counts is givin' ya' the jitters."

"'Ghastly!'" I marveled. "Now there's a fucking word for you. 'Ghastly.' I may need to write that down."

"Ah, come off it. I'm just pokin' your ribs. You ain't so bad off." That serious, Do-You-Want-To-Talk-About-It edge crept into her voice. "Especially considerin' what you went through."

"Pfft. Yeah. Life in the Legions hasn't exactly been kind to me so far. I mean, check out my hair! Holy shit!"

Why was I so eager to keep this conversation light? It wasn't as if I hadn't discussed weighty shit with Malora before.

To be perfectly honest, I was just apprehensive as hell to see her again. After all, we had parted ways on a questionable note. The ambiguity of our relationship had weighed upon my mind in previous weeks. Don't get me wrong – it was wonderful to be standing in proximity to Malora again. However, I suddenly didn't know where I should or shouldn't take things that night.

There was noticeable strain in the redhead's expression as she ran with it. "Oh, aye, aye. I'd only just become used to a man with hair as long as yours was . . ."

"I know!" I clucked. "My ears look huge now. It's a serious problem."

"Aw, I think your ears are quite fetchin'."

With a wine-loose laugh, I said, "For the record, I _am_ more than a bit freaked out by this crowd. Half of 'em act like I'm about to walk on water – well, not half. Maybe a third? Everybody else keeps eyeing me like I'm about to steal the silverware."

"I sincerely doubt that. You're the _Hero_, Linus. They're just a bit intimidated."

"Tch." A noise of incredulity. In the corner of my eye, I perceived shifting men and women as they cast furtive-as-possible glances at this odd little island of conversation. I wondered if there was some implied scandal in our familiarity. I sucked a mouthful of wine from my goblet.

Shakily, "Ya' needn't be so nervous, Linus. There're plenty o' fine people here. Friends o' mine. They truly are eager to meet and know ya'. Simply show 'em what a fine fellow you are and it'll all come together."

"I guess . . ."

Suddenly, Malora's hand was resting on my shoulder. Her fingers squeezed gently. I silently hoped that the glancers were properly appalled.

"Have faith, Linus," Malora whispered. "This ain't anything." She stared at me resolutely, unblinking. When her palm slipped away from me, I shivered noticeably.

Malora murmured, "It's so good to see ya'. I worried for you."

I suddenly felt terrible – ridiculous and shameful. Abashed, I looked at the glittering tile beneath my boots and said, "Yeah. I missed you, too. You . . . you look great, by the way."

She beamed. "Ah, aye. I do love these kinds o' affairs. Livin' in the capitol durin' my school days, I attended more than my fair share. None as big as this, though!"

"So, where's your family? I saw the whole clan at the ceremony."

She shrugged. "Pa's probably chewin' air with one o' his friends. Cremia's about someplace – I'll have to introduce ya' to her."

"And your mom?"

"Ma stayed at the house with Romani. Said she wasn't feelin' so well."

That certainly mixed disappointment and relief. Those kinds of meetings could have unbearably uncomfortable undertones. Hello, Missus Lon. Lovely family you have. By the way, I may kind, of sort be boffing your eldest daughter.

"Cool, cool," I said mindlessly.

Near the back of the room, a loud _POP_! resounded. The throat-hollow explosion of a cork being released. Subdued laughter and applause in its wake. I twitched.

Malora asked, "Are ya' sleepin' in the palace Guest Wing, then?"

"Mmm-hmmm." Sip. "Yep."

What was with the sudden small talk? I had the feeling that we were dancing around something.

Without any warning, a svelte voice spoke mere inches from my left ear. "Sir Olsen – is there anything you require of me?"

I nearly leapt out of my skin. Red dots of wine speckled the otherwise flawless white of my sling. Whipping about with a curse half-sputtered on my tongue, I found Zelda al-Imzadi standing straight-backed and poker-faced beside me. In my peripheral vision, Malora arched her brow and crossed her arms. A puzzled look grew across her features.

Feh. I should have known. Over the last couple of weeks, I had discovered Zelda had a habit of appearing out of nowhere like fucking Batman. I had been meaning to tell her to cut it out.

Instead of doing so now, all I managed was a squeaky, "Gyah! Man Jesus. That is . . . no. Not really. I'm – fine? Yeah."

It was Zelda's turn to curl an eyebrow skyward. "I apologize, Sir Olsen, but some clarification would be appreciated."

"I'm okay, Zelda. It's . . . all good in the hood," I breathed.

The handmaid nodded stiffly. She cast an askance glance at Malora, and the rancher's daughter shrank back a bit. Malora's expression remained quizzical, but her hands knotted together with a chilly vexation.

Gripped with a strange and sudden panic, I swept sideways and blurted, "Ah – hey. Um. Malora – this is Zelda al-Imzadi. She's my, uh, attendant here in the palace. Which is to say that she's the one who makes sure I'm not putting my clothes on backward. Haha." I turned back to the handmaid. "And, um, Zelda. This is Malora Lon. Daughter of Lord Tashiel Lon."

"Yes, I gathered that."

Ugh. Come on. Cut me a little slack, I thought despairingly. I said, "Malora and her dad were the ones who first found me out in Eldin Province. They helped me, ah, _adjust_ to life in Hyrule. Hell – I'd say I wouldn't be here today if it weren't for their hospitality. Good people all around. Isn't that right, Malora?"

She nodded skittishly.

Zelda eyed Malora a moment longer and then pivoted like a wind-up soldier. She bowed with palms held firmly together. "Lady Lon. It is an honor and a privilege to finally meet you."

Despite her words, Zelda observed Malora coolly. When she stood erect, the handmaiden absolutely towered over the redhead. Her gaze was that of a judge contemplating a tricky sentence.

"P-pleased to meet ya'!" Malora chirped. She executed a rough curtsy. "Ya' can call me Malora, if ya' like. I won't be the Lady o' House Lon for a long time yet."

"As you wish," Zelda said. Her eyes were like violet cave pools. "Is there anything I can do for _you_, Malora Lon? Are your needs being met this evening?"

"Ah-aye," Malora murmured. "It is a fine occasion. The Imperial Palace is so lovely a place to visit. I am, errr, always impressed by the servants here."

"We live to please. Are you certain that there is nothing I can fetch for either of you?"

A magic potion to cure weird tension, I mused.

"Nope!" I said. "So far, so good."

Malora opened her mouth tentatively, gazed with naked apprehension at the tall Shiekah at my side, and stayed silent. With a flustered sound, she cracked her knuckles and said, "Err. Yes. So very fine to see ya' again, Linus. I hope you won't mind if I run off for a spell? Some friends o' mine from school are here tonight and it'd be a shame if I didn't speak with 'em. Will I see ya' later?"

"Of course," I smiled. "We'll catch up. At dinner, maybe?"

"Certainly!" Malora said. "Well – if we're seated next to each other."

"You are not," Zelda said flatly.

Damnit.

Malora sighed, "That's a shame. You'll simply have to owe me a dance afterward."

"Definitely," I nodded. "Just keep in mind that I have two left feet."

Having regained a bit of her composure, Malora laughed, "Then it looks like I'll finally have someone else to blame my terrible form on." With a final, somewhat half-assed curtsy, Malora declared, "Truly fine meetin' ya', Maid Imzadi!"

Zelda gave a bob of her cowl-shrouded head. "As with you . . . Malora."

The redhead started to move out into the crowd, but turned back suddenly. Malora produced a smile like a sunrise and called, "And fine to finally meet _you_. . . SIR Olsen!"

I laughed embarrassedly as I watched her go.

A moment later, I found myself whirling on Zelda and hissing, "Where the hell have you been? I'm dying out here."

I honestly didn't know whether Zelda had just cock-blocked me or saved me from a conversation about to descend into desperate awkwardness. My anger was largely ersatz.

Nonchalant as can be, the handmaiden said, "I wished to gauge the atmosphere of the room before insinuating myself. As for your state of imminent death, I would say that you are conducting yourself as well as or better than my expectations. As Miss Lon said, you have nothing to worry about."

"You were eavesdropping on us?"

How I wished she wasn't so skilled in maintaining a neutral expression. If she had shown even a hint of chagrin, it wouldn't have been so infuriating.

"Not intentionally. I did not want to interrupt your conversation and thus waited for an appropriate moment to cut in. In any event, you were not exactly making yourselves discreet."

I growled, "Hey now. That's . . . argh. You're maddening. You know that, right?"

Zelda's cloak rustled liquidly as she shrugged. "Even the most casual observer can tell that you and Malora Lon share a fondness for one another, Sir Olsen."

I couldn't help but wince. Was it really that obvious?

"Whatever," I mumbled. "Just . . . drop it, I guess. Are you going to follow me around now? Maybe coach me a bit? Grab cream puffs when I'm feeling peckish?"

"If you wish."

With an exhalation of defeat, I said, "No. Not really. I was being sarcastic. Mostly. I'll track you down if I need you. For the time being, can you at least direct me to someone who actually wants to meet me and won't treat me like I just crawled out from under the refrigerator?"

"You really do need to cease that line of thought, Sir Olsen. Many have traveled leagues for but a glimpse of you." She made a quick scan of the immediate area. Zelda said, "I might suggest examining the food. I think a tour of those tables might be to your advantage."

"What – is there someone there who I need to talk to?"

It looked as if the handmaiden had to fight back a grin. She said, "Perhaps. Also, some nourishment may keep that wine from going to your head."

Well, I thought, maybe a little too late for that. But she had a point.

"In the meantime, I wish to take council with the Princess," Zelda announced. "I have had little time to speak with her. If you wish for anything, merely ring this."

The tiny, enchanted bell reappeared between her fingers. With exacting care, Zelda slipped it into the inner pocket of my suit jacket. I felt like a child, but allowed it without fuss. When you only have control of one of your arms, pride tends to take a back seat to necessity.

Zelda gave me a tautly formal bow – irritating in its implied facetiousness – and glided like a phantom out into the ballroom. Within moments, the crowd swallowed her up.

Now that both she and Malora gone their separate ways, I found myself once more marooned in the spasming sea of nobility. I tipped a hearty glug of wine down my throat and set off to find whatever human harbor would have me.


	4. 4

**4**

I wandered restless and buzzy, deeper and deeper into the ballroom. A cordial hello here; a restrained elbow-shake there. I did not intrude and in turn was not particularly intruded upon. Not a very good social networker was I.

This far into the banquet hall, I could finally tell that the back of the room was actually made up of a series of arching bay windows, which looked out over one of the keep's adjoining courtyards. Glass doors at the base of each window opened onto a garden promenade lined with softly glowing lampposts. I considered heading that way for a few lungfuls of unperfumed air and then decided to stay the course to Zelda's suggested destination. Might as well keep some sort of goal structure in place.

There was a certain glitter in the air that I found vaguely annoying. That sparkle of life and sublimated excitement I associated with school dances and first dates. And there I was – the presumed belle of the ball – lost as an abandoned puppy.

I migrated dispassionately toward tables piled with assorted hors d'oeuvres and pre-supper palate cleansers. Just as my jaunt through the kitchens had foretold, it was truly an astonishing spread – and this wasn't even the meal proper.

There were: Heaps of berries resting beside lagoons of sweet cream. Fat loaves of bread in varieties ranging from spongy black to flaky white. Tubs filled with shelled, hardboiled cuccoo eggs. Bowls of pickled root vegetables and olives. Crumbly stacks of steaming flatbread and homemade crackers. Pots of jams and marmalades. Trays of nuts and spice-encrusted, dried legumes. Vinegar-glistening salads of fresh greens and shredded, alien squash.

My gut folded in on itself with an audible bubbling. I successfully suppressed a groan – but just barely.

Out of my line of sight, someone began tuning a stringed instrument. There followed a slow warm-up song – a kind of classical guitar arrangement that was by turns peppy and contemplative. Its notes slowed my steps and caressed my foggy brain.

As I inspected the waiting edibles, an obtrusively gangly shape disgorged itself from the milling crowd. A man of not inconsiderable height, navigating the human currents with movements that were at once gawky and calculated. He threw elbows and juked his knees in a way that could almost – _almost_ – be considered graceful. His passage drew looks and mutters from the hangers-on about the tables. Viewed in concert with the introspective strumming of that distant not-guitar, the fellow's entrance was almost dramatically farcical.

The man wore a traditional suit in decidedly nontraditional colors. In an inversion of the dominant style, his jacket was a crisp, vanilla white. It stood out like an exclamation over a coal-colored vest and inner shirt. The stranger's cravat hung from his neck in easy, arterial-red loops.

Whippet-limbed, he stumble-walked his way to the edge of the refreshments trailing soft apologies in his wake. His blonde hair was tussled with deliberate pseudo-messiness. In one hand he clutched a glass tumbler half-full of a liquid like dark honey. Those green eyes seemed to run across every detail in the room with a languid precision. He was slim-faced, clean-shaven, and undeniably handsome.

This was, I realized, the same dapper fellow who had been hanging out with Renaldo Baeleus during my first audience with the Court and Council. The association was unpleasant, but I couldn't take my eyes off him as he faux-bumbled up to the trays of appetizers. In a room full of stiff backs and furtive gazes, the goofy exaggeration of his gestures was almost unsettling.

Standing at last before his quarry, the man in white considered the available foodstuffs with keen consideration. Then he set to work. As I looked on, the nobleman layered bread, boiled egg, plum salad, and a piece of unleavened cracker into a kind of jury-rigged sandwich. He inspected his handiwork with a cocked eye, smiled, and proceeded to take an enthusiastic chomp out of the creation. This warranted a slow, hearty nod of approval.

Well, _that__'__s_ interesting, I thought. My belly chewed on itself noisily.

Fuck it. If Hylian Tom Wolfe over there could stuff his craw without feeling self-conscious, so could I. If I didn't get something in my stomach, I'd be out the back door vomiting in the courtyard in no time flat.

I too left a bread-crumb trail of apologies behind me as I shouldered through packs of loiterers and up to the expanse of enticing dishes. I hesitated, unsure of the codes of decorum governing pre-supper snacking. Sure, the guy in the ice-cream suit did whatever he pleased, but he was probably some high-ranking Count, diplomat, or majordomo. It was doubtful that I could get away with any other faux pas without the rumormongers going into overdrive

So, I inched down to the end of the table and set my wine in an unoccupied portion of creamy tablecloth. Nonplussed, I scooped up a fine crockery dish from a waiting stack. I triple-noted the location of the goblet so as not to forget it once I had gathered the requisite plate of food.

It all looked so wonderful. Decide, Linus. At my back, playful notes turned mournful, and then playful again.

Some straight-up fuckin' fresh bread might do my booze-soaked gut some good, I decided. I moved to the closest basket full of dark loaves. The rich, yeasty aroma wafting from within nearly made me dizzy.

A problem made itself manifest: with only one hand to work with, I had to set the plate down before snagging anything for it. So, how was I going to eat – much less keep a hold on a cup of wine at the same time?

Hmmm. This was going to be more difficult than I first thought.

I glanced up from these semi-drunken logistics to see the green-eyed fellow staring down the table at me. He chewed a mouthful of food with introspective abandon. He nodded as we locked eyes. I glanced away, back to the starchy conundrum before me. When I looked back up:

Oh, God. He was sauntering over. An unhurried strut. In one hand a dish full of bizarre sandwich; in the other, his unknown cocktail.

I had just enough time to snatch a heel of black bread – still warm to the touch – and drop it unceremoniously onto my plate. My hand blindly shot out for something else, even though I continued to watch the blonde ambler make his way to my side. Too late to eject now – he came to a waggling stop just a few feet away.

Without setting down the tray, he took a full-bodied gulp from his drink. Then he said, "Sir Olsen, I presume."

His voice was strong, confident, and almost ridiculously affected. Every syllable enunciated; each sentence ended with a clear vocal stop. The elocution of a wealthy aesthete.

I muttered, "Yeah, that's me." I looked down to find my absently questing hand had landed in a bowl of quite large, greenish nuts. Without thinking, I snagged a fistful and dropped them onto my plate with a sound like hail on a slate roof. "Can I help you?"

The stranger grinned mordantly and pronounced, "If I might be so bold, old fellow . . . well, it looks as if you're the one who could use a spot of help."

"I'm fine," I coughed. "Really. No worries."

"Are you certain? My instincts tell me that you might find it a bit of a bother to eat all that with only one hand."

Yes – well. Stop rubbing it in.

I shrugged and said, "Just gotta prioritize. Never said it'd be easy – but I don't think I need anyone to hold my plate for me." I speared what appeared to be a hunk of cold roast beef and had to wiggle the skewer to drop it onto the plate.

The stranger let loose a single, clipped laugh. "Oh, quite," he smiled. Another thoughtful glug of liquor. In the same motion as the drink, he slid his plate of food onto the tablecloth and extended his hand. "Anton Baeleus at your service, old bean. Though we have shared a room or two, I haven't had the pleasure of actually meeting you."

Baeleus. _Fuck_. Zelda had known he would be over here, hadn't she? _Double-fuck_!

Without realizing it, I gazed about wildly for some glimpse of the handmaiden – as if I would find her waiting in the wings, a prankster's smile on her lips. Of course not. She was nowhere that I could see. I found myself toying absently with absurd plans for revenge.

To my credit, I quickly regained my composure. I set my face to as neutral an expression as humanly possible, stood straight, and grabbed his spindly elbow. "Hey, nice to meet you," I said. I heard the strain in my voice and hated myself a little for it. We shook arms as cordially as was possible for the situation – especially considering how badly I wanted to turn around and vanish into the crowd.

Apparently not one to waste a moment, Anton Baeleus proceeded, "Are you sure about the assistance, old boy? I would hate to see you falter this evening – especially considering your fine service to the nation and all that."

Okay, I thought. Just indulge the usual pleasantries, find an opening, and then get the fuck out. You have no idea what this guy's game is. If he's anything like his high-and-mighty relative – assuming they _are _related – this Anton dude is probably about to unsheathe his claws. Best keep this short and sweet.

"Naw, man," I fake-smiled. "I think I'll let the tables do all the helping tonight. I might not be able to mingle much, but it's better than going hungry."

I popped one of the nuts from my collection into my mouth and chewed. It had a tough-to-crack outer layer that I briefly mistook for a shell, but this soon gave way between my molars. Beneath was a robust, somewhat chewy nut-meat reminiscent of a chestnut. Definitely a keeper.

Raising his eyebrows in some approximation of approval, Anton raised his drink in what might have been a mocking salute. "A self-reliant man. I like that," he said. "I've heard much and more about you, Sir Olsen. Damned fine reputation you have – though a bit mixed in my company, if you don't mind my frank opinion. It seems that a fascinating melange of tales follows you every which way. I was hoping to get a few moments with you tonight to become better acq – ah, _hello _there, chum."

His eyes suddenly slipped past my shoulder and locked onto a figure roving about the finger foods on the other side of the table. A red-haired, barrel-chested, iron-jawed man in a legionary dress uniform. The unknown man glowered even as he scooped pickled onions onto his plate. After a moment of overly intense hunter-gathering, he glanced about like a thief on the prowl and stomped back through the wall of partygoers.

Uh . . . huh. I ripped off a chunk of bread with my teeth and chewed confusedly. Suddenly eager for something to wash down my repast, I took as few steps as was polite and plucked my goblet from the end of the table. Its volume was distressingly low.

Anton Baeleus turned his gaze back to me. A nakedly mischievous twinkle danced about his eyes. He purred, "Exquisite specimen. Absolutely bloody toothsome." The glass tipped back. "I wonder if he's the, ah, _easily__ persuadable_ sort. If you know what I mean."

The nobleman gazed at me with a cocked eye, as if gauging my emergent reaction. A playful smirk stalked the edges of his mouth.

I took another bite of bread, wide-eyed and perplexed. Well, this was certainly new. "Um," I said, mouth half-full.

Heedless, Anton exposited, "Absolutely fine night for that sort of thing, old boy. A bit of the old stalk and chase – pounce and merry. Grand occasions make for grand sport. And that fine fellow we just spied? The dandiest sort of prize, I assure you. I _assure _you, indeed."

I crunched irritably on a handful of nuts. Once I swallowed, I growled, "Oh, hey. You're messing with me, aren't you? Funny. Goddamn hilarious."

His voice went sly and coy and playful. He narrowed his eyes and murmured, "Oh, am I? I was not aware as such, Sir Olsen. You'll have to forgive me if I gave that impression."

No – _no_. None of this. I was not going to be toyed with tonight. Enough of this Haze-the-New-Guy horseshit.

"So," I said sloshily, "are you supposed to be one of those gay guys who can't shut up about the dudes they wanna boink? Just totally out and proud and really annoying about it?" I leaned casually and swirled the wine in my goblet as if I were discussing the stock index.

Anton Baeleus blinked rapidly. "Begging your pardon, Sir Olsen, but I understood almost none of that."

I gestured meaninglessly with my cup. I said, "Way I see it, it's one of two things: You're either the type of straight dude who's always trying to screw with people's heads by acting like you're gay, or." Glug. "Orrrrr you're really homosexual and like to flaunt it. Also to screw with people's heads."

Sudden dismay scrunched up the man's features. He tentatively said, "Still not quite following you, fellow. I _think _I understand the gist of your assertion, but these, ah, identifying terms. Does 'homosexual' mean what I think you are implying?" By the end of the question, he was frowning deeply. An abrupt timidity lurked in the undercurrent of his voice.

Okay, so . . . this was honestly new territory for me. It yanked away words and made me feel slightly bad about myself. In turning the tables on this guy, I was setting off into a region that I had not yet really familiarized myself with. In my old life – back in Los Angeles – I had no gay friends to speak of. Hell – I didn't even know if I had any gay _acquaintances_. Though I professed to a neutral opinion in the whole Culture War "issue" of homosexuality, in all honesty the whole concept unnerved me a little bit. There was no justification for the feeling of anxiety that homosexuality – as an idea and a preference – summoned in me. At the same time, I had no philosophical _problem_ with it. It just kind of weirded me out.

And here I was, about to throw the whole thing back in this guy's face. I suddenly felt like the most wretched sort of homophobic douchebag.

So: I hesitated, choked on whatever crap insult was about spout past my idiot lips, and instead drank nearly the rest of my wine. With a deathly sigh, I muttered, "Where I come from, 'homosexual' means someone who prefers the same gender for, um. You know. Sex. Intercourse. Coitus."

I realized I was blushing – for some fucking reason.

"Anyway. 'Gay' is kind of slang for homosexual, I guess. Same with 'queer' and a bunch of other words that are mostly insulting, but whatever. You know, I think I'll shut up now."

"Gay?" Anton repeated stone-facedly. He perked up immensely. "Ah, so there's a _label_ for it, then! Splendid." He flashed a dazzlingly devil-may-care smile. "I like your homeland already, Sir Olsen."

"Yes. Well, it is pretty great. I think you're the first person in Hyrule to agree with me."

Quick as a cat, Anton snatched up his pseudo-sandwich and ripped a chunk from it. Bits of plum and egg stuck in his teeth as he spoke. "If you must know, I dare say it's a bit of both prospects."

"Bwuh?"

"Your two assertions about my sincerity," Anton said. "Whether I was jesting in order to throw you off guard, or whether I am so enamored by the male form that I must profess my love of it at every turn. I must admit that both suppositions have more than a bit of truth to them. I do enjoy both the company and appreciation of the lads! But, more to the point, I have a tendency to, ah – how shall we say – thrust it in people's faces to gauge their reaction. To be blunt, a man of my wealth and privilege is allowed to have such eccentricities.

"Of course, my sort aren't even supposed to _exist _you know. Not really. No labels for old Anton here in Hyrule. It's a lot of silly bollocks, my dear boy. It's not as if there aren't stories about us – which is to say, my type, I guess. Veiled stuff like 'The Princess and Her Handmaid' and that old saw about the Hero of Time taking his own shadow as a lover. Jolly stupid, if you ask me."

For all the tension I had felt in the initial offing of this meeting, I laughed. Despite his name, I suddenly didn't want to be rid of this man. Perhaps he was trying to disarm me, but his easy manner had helped to smooth out what had otherwise been an interminably rough patch.

Still, I did need to suss out exactly who and what he represented. I decided to soft-pedal my investigation – just in case. The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.

"So are you, um, here with anyone?" I asked hesitantly. In retrospect, I can see exactly how poorly that came out.

Anton's face slackened. Rose-colored patches bloomed along his cheekbones. "I, err," he stammered. "I don't know – ah, hrrm. How unfortunate. I must confess that I did not see this coming. You know that – ah – errm – I am quite flattered. But, as it turns out, Sir Olsen, I am." He took a flummoxed bite of food. "Which is to say – _I __am__ not __in __the __least __bit __attracted __to __you_."

Aw, shit. I was such an idiot.

"See," Anton continued, carried away on his own momentum, "you simply aren't the sort of, ah, fellow I am usually prone to pursuing. Which is not to say that you are not a, err, handsome man. No sir. I am not saying that at all."

Could this get any more awkward? Wait – don't think that. It can _always _get more awkward. I wanted to crawl under the tablecloth and hide there for the rest of the evening. Instead, I made a spurious attempt at Bad Phrasing Damage Control.

"I didn't mean to –" I blurted.

Anton barreled on, his expression strained and mortified. "There's a kitchen lad here in the palace, you know, who you might be interested in. An absolute appalling trollop, that one. Gives it up for any fellow who so much as glances his direction. Hahaha!" The nobleman finished his drink and looked around desperately – perhaps for a refill. The shoe was indeed on the other foot now.

"Lord Baeleus . . ." I gabbled. "That's not what I meant. Seriously. I'm sorry that it sounded like that – I just –" God in heaven was I awful at this. "I wasn't hitting on you. I swear on all that is holy that I was not making a pass."

Like an intervening angel come to right the world's wrongs, a servant appeared beside us. He sported another pitcher of red wine and an expression of stupendous boredom. "Sirs?" was all he said – and that's all that was needed.

For a moment, both Anton and I stared at him silently. Then the white-coated nobleman cleared his throat and asked, "I don't suppose that you have a spot of Twill whiskey on you, old sport?"

"Just this wine, sir," the servant said dryly. "A Lower Vale vintage – Year 90. Quite a fine summer for Vale grapes, I'm told."

Nodding exaggeratedly, Anton said, "Oh, I see. I have no idea what that means, I'm afraid. Much more of a, ah, whiskey man than wine. But it will have to do for the moment. Give it here, if you please."

The servant glanced at Anton's outstretched cocktail glass with naked distaste. With some hesitation, he tipped the flagon and filled the tumbler with liquid burgundy. In return, Anton raised the cup in toast. "Cheers, good fellow. A fine evening to you."

"And you, Sir Olsen?" By name, even!

"Yeah, fill me up. Please." There was still a little wine in the bottom of my goblet. It appeared to take all of the servant's willpower to pour some of his undoubtedly expensive vintage into the mystery swill lingering in my cup. I thanked him and he wandered off quickly, with an air of evanescent disgust.

After Anton and I had tipped back hearty throatfuls of that undeniably fine wine and taken bites off our plates of food, I tentatively tried to right the ship. With my last attempt at social hopscotch such a goddamned disaster, I was more than a little apprehensive about reentering the conversation.

"So," I said.

"Yes," he said.

"Well," I sniffed, "_that _was unbearable."

"Indubitably."

"I think we can pretend that it didn't happen."

He nodded eagerly. "Indeed."

"Wanna start over?" I hazarded.

The nobleman attempted a smile. "That would be smashing."

I offered him my hand and we shook again, for the first time. "I'm Sir Linus Olsen the Link. Please call me Linus. I'm still not used to the title," I said.

"Anton Baeleus. Likewise on the title, old bean. In all technicality, I'm not a Lord."

"Anton, then?"

"Much obliged – Linus."

An uncertain pause. I ripped fervently into the cold roast beef lingering on my plate. However bizarrely this particular social call had gone, I could at least admit that the appetizer table had done me a world of physical good. Though I still felt a bit tingly and disconnected, full-on drunkenness had probably been postponed a while. Well – that was if I kept pacing my drinking appropriately. If I tried to keep up with the man before me, it might end up an early night indeed.

Weighing my options, I decided that the direct route was probably the way to go with Mister Baeleus. I said, "When I asked the question that led to the, um, misunderstanding, I just wanted to figure out whether you know Renaldo Baeleus. Uh, General Baeleus, I mean."

Anton grinned, "Why, I should think so! He is my older brother, after all."

Good thing my goblet was nowhere near my lips – it was an awfully good moment for a classic spit-take. As it was, I felt a turgid wave of dread wash down my back.

Shrugging dramatically, Anton clucked, "I take it from your somewhat gray expression that this information does not make you happy."

"It's – I mean –" I struggled to find the right words, if any existed. "Shit. I dunno."

"I suppose that we shan't beat about the proverbial bush. You and my brother do not exactly see eye to eye."

"No," I admitted.

A touch of that wry, almost predatory humor crept into Anton Baeleus's words. "Come now, Linus Olsen. I am not my brother. And I can guarantee – absolutely _locksmith_ it, sir – that he is not me. Were it up to dear Renaldo, I would have been ejected from the old Baeleus clan years and years ago. I vouchsafe that your opinion – no matter its essence – is safe with me. I want only to hear your thoughts on that greatest of the Baeleus men. You may think on it, if you like."

I did indeed think about it. Well – fuck it. Here's to social suicide.

"Your brother," I said determinedly, "is a dog rapist."

Anton considered this for a moment. "So," he began, "does that mean he's a dog who is also a rapist? Or a man who rapes dogs?"

"Can't he be both?"

"I would venture that that would defeat the point, old boy."

"Then the second one. The pet-rapey option."

"Ah," Anton said. "Well, I can assure you that he is no such thing. Renaldo has never had any trouble with finding female companionship. They all but swoon at the sight of him – the cad. He ended up causing more than one internal feud between the girls of the manor staff back in old Kakariko Town. Drove our father half to madness. No – the ladies love Renaldo and he loves them in turn. No violator of canines is he."

"Whatever. Not really the point," I grumbled. "He's an asshole."

"Well, quite."

A golden-hued fairy suddenly shot between us, wing-tips nearly slapping my nose. It let out an exasperated, "Hmph," dipped down to the tabletop, and snatched up a plump, purple twillberry. Compared to its carrier, the bite-sized fruit was the size of a cannonball. Off the fairy flew, leaving behind it a trail of electric humming.

The white-suited nobleman's lip curled. "Eugh. For such a frightfully snobbish lot, Quee fairies have absolutely profligate manners. Give me a base ruffian of Xen any day. At least they know how to throw a party."

"Uh, what?" I laughed.

The lip relaxed; an eyebrow unfurled. Anton asked, "Surely you are aware of the rivalry between this great city's two fairy colonies?"

"Dude, what I don't know could fill a book. Three books. Ten." I was just glad that the conversation had shifted away from this man's cockface of a brother.

Without missing a beat, Anton said, "Perfectly understandable, your opinion of Renaldo."

God . . . _damnit_.

"After all, dear fellow, his rants against your person are quite legendary. Half of Midtown must have heard his most recent ravings. To put it lightly, the old General dislikes you intensely."

"I can imagine."

"Can you? Renaldo tends to bellow things in private that he would never say even in the confidence of his own legionary officers. When we sit down for a drink each time he comes to Hylium Town, his grievances are long and exquisitely profane."

By now, I noticed that all but a stray nut had disappeared from my plate. I stabbed another slab of cool beef and picked a strip of it off with my fingers. You bastards want a barbarian? Well, I'll give you King Fucking Conan. I washed it down with wine that I had to admit was really fucking excellent.

_Twing-twang-twang_, went the stringed music. A sardonic stinger for a thoughtfully absurd moment.

"Wait," I chuffed. "Just a little bit ago, you said that Renaldo wanted to kick you out of the family. Implying that he, like, disapproves of your, um, lifestyle choice." I pointed at Anton brazenly, not particularly giving a shit about his reaction.

Rather than draw back in offense, the nobleman grinned like a triumphant demon. He raised his glass like a gambler and chuckled, "I may have exaggerated for dramatic effect, old bean."

To my surprise, I laughed. Genuinely – fully – from the bottom of my belly. It was probably the wine, but I didn't much care.

"Jesus!" I giggled. "You're something else, you know that?"

Proudly, "Why, I stake my reputation on it, dear boy. Renaldo always had his swordplay and heroism. The youngest Baeleus lad had to make his way in the war of words. And whiskey drinks, I suppose. Something I am missing immensely at the moment, in all honesty."

He sighed and rested an elbow against the table, as if it were the edge of a bar. "I will reveal the truth, then: Renaldo and I are actually not on terrible terms. Each of us has his life and respects the other's domain, as it were. He defends the honor of Hyrule and House Baeleus from his seat in the Royal Legions. I maintain our noble bloodline's interests here in Hylium, as we ride out the duration of our damnable exile.

"It is true that Renaldo disapproves of the, ah, _unquantifiable_ nature of my social leanings. In turn, I wish that he didn't exercise judgment on any and all men that pass beneath his supposedly august visage. He should try acting less like a Lord and more like a General, if you ask me. But other than that? Big brother and I are on more than amiable speaking terms. Apologies for the tricksterish use of hyperbole, dear boy."

I nodded, curiously unperturbed. Despite all my instincts, I was convinced.

"And you? What's your position on uh . . . _me_?" I asked.

Anton's smile was as charming as any I'd ever seen. "Why, I have no idea. Though I must say, sir, that your cavalier attitude regarding my earlier, ah, _jests_ does place you in my good graces for the nonce. Few have ever reacted with such droll panache."

"So you're not actually gay?"

"Heavens, what gave you that idea?" he chuckled. "On that subject alone am I as honest as old Alvin. Your curious appellation is as solid a label for my romantic interests as any I've ever encountered."

A grim little procession of robed gorons made its way past the tables. I thought I spotted Elder Thum of Oloro Town among their number, and then wondered if I was simply being racist.

"I know that Renaldo is a difficult man to appreciate," Anton reflected. "The goddesses know that he makes it so. All the same, I encourage you to give him space to come around to you. He has his reasons for distrusting your claim to the title of Hero. Some legitimate, others . . . well, a tad a ridiculous." His smile turned wan and perhaps a bit sad.

"It'd be a lot easier for me to 'come around' to the fucker if he wasn't always calling for me to be thrown in prison," I griped.

"Thus, your initial reluctance at my greeting."

"Yeah. Guilty as charged on that one."

Anton made a gesture that I associated with releasing a bird into flight. "We are far lesser bastards than you take us for, Linus. My brother has simply embraced the rather serious traditional iconography of our House. Honor, duty, stoicism, and all that other claptrap. Why, had the gutless mongrels of Drex not co-opted it, dear Renaldo would probably still be wearing the moon's-face broach favored by our father. You know – the Baeleus colors are silver and crimson. Colors of the moon, old chap. An old symbol. Very respectable until late."

I nodded emptily.

Magnanimously, "Would you allow me then to try to, ah, _thaw _relations between our houses, so to speak? If it is not too forward a suggestion, I do think that you need to expand your stable of allies here in Hylium Town."

I tilted my head, took a sour drink, and stuffed the rest of the cold cut in my fingers down my gullet.

"Sure," I chewed. "What the hell."

"Splendid. Then allow me to properly introduce you around, Sir Olsen. If I might be so bold, you seem a bit adrift here."

Try as I might, there was no argument to be mustered against that assertion.

"Actually," I sighed, "that would be awesome. Like you said, I'm kind of floundering tonight."

"Curious manner of expressing it, but I cannot agree more. You need to learn to be bold and a little bit brusque with this crowd."

Anton's expression was at once beneficent and Mephistophelian. He swept an arm out like an usher and announced, "I have just the plan of attack necessary for you, old bean. Trust me – after I'm through with you, these fussy, tall-hat types will be eating out of the palm of your hand."

I followed the invisible beam projected by the suave nobleman's hand. It led into a smash of suits and colorful gowns – figures in drab hoods – scuttling servants – clouds of chattering fairies – candlelit estuaries of conversation in sepulchral tones – women so beautiful they seemed unearthly – alchemist-wheelers negotiating deals in riotous costume – the brief flash of a ghostly scarlet dress. Scattered among it all were the great Lords and political movers of Hyrule – men who perhaps even now expected me to pay them my respect.

All this was framed by the huge, twilit windows of the back gallery and gardens. The supple glow of the ballroom chandeliers struck down shadows and made them slinking, subservient things. A surreal softness pervaded every edge and angle.

"All right," I heaved. "Let's do this."

He snapped his fingers and crowed, "Marvelous! You'll have a fine time of it yet, Sir Olsen. Linus, rather. And who knows? Perhaps we shall even find someone who can fix us with a proper bit of whiskey for the duration."

Anton Baeleus struck out like a white-coated band leader, glass of wine extended before him as if it were a lamp to lead the way. Men and women alike stared at his progress as if he were a curious part of the night's entertainment.

I followed him into the tumult, feeling less like a lost puppy and more like Dante on the heels of Virgil.


	5. 5

**5**

First thing was first: Anton and I refilled our cups from the closest flagon we could find. Thus equipped, we commenced our expedition. The two of us ambled like roustabouts into the teeming, wealth-reeking crowd.

The Hylian concept of "cocktail hour" was a tenuous one. For one thing, it wasn't strictly an hour or any other proscribed time period. It was a more ramshackle affair than I thought it would be – unorganized and chaotic. The crowd had quickly divided into its own insular archipelagos of conversation and collusion.

Anton pulled me forth like a tour guide on the prow of a jungle cruise. On into that velvet maelstrom. At its surface, it was calm and civil – but oh, when one stuck a toe into its depths that gathering was alive with a sparkling turbulence. Without allies to light the way, I would be doomed by that secretive energy.

I learned much and more of Anton Baeleus that night, but not the least surprising thing about him was his seemingly innate ability to find anyone anywhere – even (and perhaps especially) in a crowd like that. He plunged straight into those dangerous currents and navigated a path he had no doubt been brewing since before he actually met me. It was becoming clear that he intended to grab the nearest folk and work our way out to the very edges of the crowd. I fell in line as if on a tether.

We began with Lord and Lady Shimshar – a matched set of sniffling skeletons passing gracelessly from middle into elder age. Theirs was one of the relatively minor noble families, undistinguished in either command or government. Apparently, they hailed from the northern portion of Faron Province, which now lay under Protectorate rule. Almost all of their lands and possessions had been stolen by Ganon's encroaching horde. According to Anton, the Shimshars had close but cool ties to House Baeleus.

The two aristocrats met me as one might greet a visiting confessor or tax auditor – with a polite, wary weariness. Anton engaged them in a quick dialogue and then excused us.

At the corner of another of the great banquet tables – this one set for the upcoming supper – Anton led me to a decidedly more interesting candidate. She was a solitary, stately woman in a near-luminescent blue dress. Wide of hips, heavy of breast, keen of eye. Her gray-streaked, formerly dark hair was held in a high and haughty bun. She was watching us long before we arrived.

"Anton . . . Baeleus," she pronounced.

"Countess!" Anton enthused. "Smashing to see you again. I was hoping to introduce you to an acquaintance of mine . . ."

The woman pressed her gloved hands together. She said, "No need for showmanship, Anton. I of course know that this is Sir Linus Olsen. The King announced him personally less than an hour ago, if I'm not mistaken."

"Err – quite. Spot on, madam. In any event – Sir Olsen, this is Countess Mim of the Blue Star Guild."

She produced a brittle smile and said, "Not a Countess yet, dear Anton. No matter how many times I apply and Rupees I offer, I am consistently denied the title."

Every woman I had met that night had curtsied to me. To my surprise, this intense, sarcastic woman extended her arm to mine. I took it with a little reluctance, then a strengthening familiarity.

"I am Madame Enora Mim, Sir Olsen. You may know my name via the products that carry it."

It took one moment for me to remember exactly where I _had_ heard the name . . . and another to batten down the redness that threatened to sweep over my face.

Madame Mim's only acknowledgment of my recognition was a small nod and the briefest flash of pleased teeth. "Very fine to meet you, Sir Olsen. The ceremony for your knighthood was quite dramatic."

"Now there's a glowing endorsement!" I chuckled.

She collected a goblet from the tabletop and drank thoughtfully from its contents. "So, tell me Sir Olsen," she mused, "has Anton taken you on as one of his, ah, 'projects?'"

Still beaming, Anton said. "Now now, madam. It isn't like that – I can assure you." His subject-change was at once brutally awkward and masterfully executed. "Enora – whom we all hope will become a Countess sooner rather than later –"

"Obviously not _all_, dear."

"– has guided the Blue Star Guild to become one of the most successful alchemic guilds in Hyrule. Why, without her creations I would hazard that the entire modern age would not be possible!" Anton finished.

A lady alchemist, I considered. That was certainly novel.

Mim made an incredulous sound – not quite a snort, but close enough. "While my creations have had an undeniable effect on the health and safety of Hyrule, there is still so much to be done. Even the most basic and debilitating diseases that afflict our people yet need a cure. I can only hope that my guild's tireless work can improve the lives of all our kingdom's citizens" She succeeded in combining pride and distaste into a single workable sentiment. "And – as a clarification – I am not an advocate for _Hyrule_. I work for the _women_ of Hyrule."

I blinked with nascent confusion. It was a brief sort of befuddlement – more wine-based than anything. Anton said nothing – just nipped at his glass and smirked as if contemplating good times gone by.

The strumming semi-guitar broke into a manic melody – a series of notes so fast I expected them to end with the sound of the instrument being smashed against the floor.

"Umm," I finally managed. "Care to, uh, elaborate on that?"

The lady of the moment nodded rather genially, considering the circumstances. She said, "I am unaware of your homeland's attitudes toward the, ah, 'weaker gender,' Sir Olsen. However, I suspect that they cannot be much different than our kingdom's traditional roles for women."

I nodded, once more rolling over for the sake of not complicating things needlessly.

"We are a people that claim to worship goddesses, Sir Olsen. Therein is the operative word – 'worship.' In Hyrule, women are meant to be seen – to be appreciated and venerated from afar. Suggest that women's power in the public sphere should match the theoretical power of the Three and you shall receive a fascinating reaction indeed." Her lips twisted in unhidden disgust.

"The romantics and 'chivalrics' among your number claim to love women. They exalt their 'perfect representation of the goddess' and such utter nonsense. But insist that a woman should be able to inherit the full parcel of her father's land? Advocate the legalization of divorce? Opine that allowing women to serve in the Legions would end the need for conscription forever? Why, even those treacle-hearted poets and playwrights draw back in abject terror. That is the truth of Hyrule's feelings toward the very _idea_ of the female – affection is merely a mask for contempt."

The monologue was broken by an ironically dainty sip from Mim's goblet. Just as I was about to ask some leading question or another – I'm not certain that I knew what that was even at the time – the guild leader launched back in.

"If anything, I fear that my so-called 'Potion for Discerning Ladies' has only encouraged Hyrule's males to become even more shameless cads. Now, many feel exempt from the consequences of their thoughtless debaucheries. As such, I feel that it is my – and the Blue Star Guild in general, of course – duty not only to lift up the status of women, but the very societal notions that have brought us to this unfortunate moment."

Fascinating cultural adventure you're taking me on, Anton.

Try as I might, I couldn't think of a single thing to say. If Enora Mim (perhaps soon to be a Countess) shared these kinds of opinions with near-total strangers, the mid boggled at what kind of views she expounded upon in confidence.

Obviously picking up on my perplexity, Mim said, "Ah – I hope I have not scandalized you too mightily, Sir Olsen. Frankly, you appear to be experiencing a bit of intestinal trouble at the moment."

Anton laughed – though perhaps a bit nervously.

I shook my head, drained a bit of liquid courage, and stammered, "No no no – it's just. I'm kind of out of the loop on this kind of thing? Didn't expect to hear it in Hyrule. Hell – I didn't even hear it much back home. Didn't even get around to that required Women's Studies class in college."

Almost wistfully, "Then you agree with my assertions, Sir Olsen?"

"I – well – I'm not sure – I mean there are a lot of variables and –"

Anton intervened in what was not to be the last of his superheroic efforts on my behalf.

"Do keep in mind that much of Sir Olsen's time in our fair kingdom has been spent either in travel or in battle, madam. He's not yet had time to absorb some of the, ah, _trickier _aspects of Hylian social debate and all that."

"Ever the diplomat, dear Anton."

"And you, ever the rabble-rouser." Anton raised his glass to her. "Which is why I find your company so refreshing, my lady. Alas, we must away. Apologies for the old jaw-and-dash, but we have much to do this evening."

"Oh, I am certain of that," Madame Mim said with a cryptic grin. "Quite certain."

I was able to get in a harried, "Nicetomeetyou!" before Anton was once again tromping off in search of social enrichment.

When we were out of earshot of the arch-eyed alchemist, I let loose a pent-up breath. "Well – that was a little more intense than I thought it'd be. I'd say that I've seen everything, but we're just getting started, aren't we?"

To this, Anton didn't even give a proper reply. He simply grinned like a showman and executed a pitch-perfect wink.

The journeys between visits were not in any way epic ones. A few steps here; a harried jaunt there. After the enlightening conversation with Enora Mim, Anton soon found a contingent of men whom he identified as being part of the extended Seamarch family.

"Quite a prodigious lot," he explained. "More brothers and cousins and aunts and such than you can shake a spear at. All scheming and plotting against one another, of course. And why not? Seamarch Province is rich country. Everyone wants a piece of the old Lord's holdings, especially since he's, ah . . . well, _indisposed_ much of the time."

We observed the muttering group of men – some six or seven wide, heavily built fellows in suits and benthic-green sashes – from a semi-polite distance. Their hair was rust-red where it wasn't graying and every one of them wore some variation of mustache. Even at a conspiratorial whisper, I could hear their pronounced Great Bay accents.

"Indisposed?" I asked.

"Why, you didn't hear it from me – but many say that Lord Seamarch is, ah, _madder __than __a __boiling __gohma_. If he is here tonight, I sincerely doubt that he's taking audience with anyone other than his attendants. If true, it is quite a poorly kept secret."

"Huh. Should we intrude, then?"

"I think we shall."

So we intruded. I can't say that I pulled anything meaningful out of the exchange. The gathered Seamarch clansmen were just as shifty and reticent as they appeared from a distance. They shook arms with me and released clipped pleasantries as if doing so caused them pain.

Perhaps the most interesting moment in our visit with the southern noblemen came when one produced a hand-rolled cigarette from a suit pocket and a glass orb the size of a tangerine from another. It was a curiously beautiful artifact – wrapped in bands of silver and gold. It contained a viscous amber liquid that sloshed about languidly. Atop the orb was a silver cap that the nobleman flicked open with a press of his thumb. A bright blue flame suddenly boiled out of the top of the sphere, dancing atop a sparking length of wick.

"Does'nyone need a flint?" the mustachioed man asked after he had lit his own cigarette. Two of his brothers produced cigars and dipped their chewed tips to the strange lighter. Particularly rank tobacco smoke rose in rivulets.

I found myself suddenly missing the socially lubricating qualities of marijuana. It left me to wonder just how well I could navigate this shindig on weed. Ha. I'd probably just sit down in the corner, stuff my face, and smile gawkily at all passers-by.

Anton gazed painfully at the offered flame, waving his free hand as if to ward off an irate chihuahua. "Ah, many apologies old bean – don't smoke. Filthy habit."

Several sets of suspicious eyes raked over him. It was as good a signal to keep going as any.

I glimpsed a red hood as it swept through the multitude. My eyes narrowed. A moment of anxious anticipation – then nothing. Gone. I shook my booze-soggy head uncertainly.

The next of our mountains came to Mohammad, so to speak.

Crossing a stretch of marble seemingly reserved for high-born women and their clinging servants, I heard a sudden cry of, "Anton, dear!" A clear, high, joyous voice. From the multitude materialized a girl who was somewhat short, ebon-haired, and indomitably pretty. Her eyes were wide, happy chips of pumice.

Anton stopped in his tracks, growing a sheepish look as the young woman approached. In another drop of the usual protocol, she embraced him warmly. After a moment's hesitation, Anton returned the hug.

"Hullo, Kath! Very good to see you, too. Dashed good." The nobleman disengaged and seemed to struggle for a kindly smile.

The woman – Kath, I supposed – giggled and asked, "Are you enjoying the festivities?"

"Oh, quite, quite. You know me. These sorts of affairs are my bread and butter, so to speak."

Kath turned her attention to me. Those volcanic-gray eyes slipped with quick judgment over my features. Her nakedly charmed grin transformed into something else – something almost inscrutably sly and calculating. That it was still very much pleased was slightly unnerving.

"Why, is this who I think it is?" she asked.

Anton nodded sagely. "It is, it is! Kath, meet Sir Linus Olsen the Link."

I received an exacting curtsy. The girl murmured, "Much charmed, Sir Olsen."

"Back at ya'," I said – and instantly regretted it.

If either Anton or Kath made note of my discourteous informality, they said nothing of it. One of the perks of being the goddesses' hand-picked champion was that fewer people would call me on my rude dipshittery. In any event, both the girl and nobleman had turned their attentions away from me entirely.

"Will I see you at supper?" Kath asked.

"No doubt in my mind, poppet."

"Oh, I have ever so much to tell you about our holiday at the Ulo estate. You will not believe the gossip! My cup overflows with such joyful tidbits."

"I am quite eager to listen to it all, my dear."

"Until then, my sweet!" Kath gushed. "Now if you fine gentlemen will excuse me – there are so many good friends here, I do not think I will be able to reach them all by night's end. But I _shall _make the effort!"

Another embrace for Anton; another curtsy for me. A hint of a knowing smile. Then Kath was away, spinning off into the outer reaches of the gathering like a briefly visiting shade of futures past.

I slurped my wine with a pleasant sense of disorientation. Fermented sugars swam about my mouth. To swallow was to invite dizziness. Anton seemed to join me in quasi-inebriated contemplation. All about us, women in gowns like schooners moved to unknowable currents.

"Well, she was certainly friendly," I observed. "Now, uh . . . who _is _she?"

"Oh, her? My fiancée. Sweet girl. Very deluded. The poor thing actually _looks__ forward _to our wedding."

"Fiancée," I echoed.

"Yes, indeed. We're to be married next year. The fourteenth of Eldus, I believe."

I stared at the white-suited man a moment, a tad flabbergasted. "Congratulations?"

He waved a hand dismissively. "She's one of the scions of old man Lanayru. His youngest granddaughter, if I'm not mistaken." Anton favored me with a long, droll look. "We in House Baeleus wish to reaffirm our ties with House Lanayru, you see."

"I guess?"

"An arranged marriage, Sir Olsen."

I sputtered, "But aren't you – I mean – don't they know . . .?"

"That I have absolutely no interest in the girl herself?" Anton mused. "Come now, Linus. Do you think that such a thing matters in such marriages? Even those that are between men and women of the usual persuasion?"

"Well, I guess . . ."

"I would venture that such a thing occurs more often than not, dear boy. Think of your own homeland. Have you not heard of – what is the word you used? – 'gay' fellows taking wives as a matter of convenience?"

"Sure," I shrugged. "But that's usually to hide that they _are_ gay. We may have a word for it, but it doesn't mean that everyone's cool with it. But in your case, you don't _need _to hide, right?"

"Not particularly."

"So, doesn't everyone know that you prefer men? Won't they know it's a sham?"

"Oh, everyone knows that, old boy. Like all good Hylians, they simply choose to ignore it. Even if it is staring them in the face. The layers of self-deception and denial run quite deep.

"If I must be completely honest with you, these days House Baeleus finds itself in quite a dilly of a conundrum. Kicked out of our ancestral lands by Ganon's bastards and all that. Without our traditional incomes, we find ourselves more and more dependent on the other Houses for support. Thus, a strategic alliance with House Lanayru is very much a necessity – no matter how much I may disapprove."

Distant musical strains twinkled idiotically.

"I suppose that I will be required to _sire __an __heir_." Anton wrinkled his nose and sipped perfunctorily at his drink. He glanced at me and raised an eyebrow. "And don't think I won't do my duty! Oh no! I will do what must be done for the good of my family!" Sip. "But I _won__'__t __like __it._"

A look of sudden horror passed over Anton's features. "Gods, suppose she turns out to be one of those girls who can't get enough of it? I've met some of those, you know. Just like that boy I mentioned, down in the kitchens. Can't speak of anything _but_ it, old chap. Morning, noon, and night. 'His rod' this and 'throbbing manhood' that."

He shuddered.

"Can't say I'd mind," I said. It was intended as a joke, but it immediately felt crass and uncouth. I was batting 'em out of the park tonight. "Sorry – that wasn't –"

"Don't fret, Sir Olsen. I of all people should know that wine loosens tongues and lets loose our inner djinns."

Anton looked into his tightly gripped glass and grimaced. "I am well aware that Katherine Lanayru is quite beautiful. When I say that I want nothing to do with her, I am overstating things a bit. Besides her quite fetching looks, she is also intelligent, forceful, and a clever social navigator. I do enjoy her company. Other than the unfortunate desolation that will be our marriage bed, Kath will make a fine wife." He inhaled dramatically. "I simply wish that this farce of a wedding could wait a handful of years. She's still just a girl in the grand scheme of things."

"Looked old enough to me," I observed.

Anton eyed me coolly. "Only nineteen, chap – much too young for me even if it weren't a marriage of convenience." His sigh sounded genuinely troubled. "At least it's better than the bad old days of the institution, one supposes. Girls married off to arranged suitors at the first signs of their menses and all that. Gone are the days of child brides shackled to drooling old men, thank Nayru. Here's to the modern age."

"I'll drink to that."

We did. Within moments, we were moving again.

It was discovered that both of us needed a pit stop to refill our empty booze tanks. Unlike the previous quest for wine, a proper destination was not immediately recognizable. Thus, we wound through the crowd for some minutes. A clipped series of mini-conversations passed between us – largely consisting of Anton grilling me for further information about Earth. Having shed my previous inhibitions about discussing my homeland, I was all too willing to oblige him.

When at last we discovered a jittery-looking serving girl with the proper refreshments, we were standing back near the entrance to the ballroom. I enjoyed my numbing newfound bounty in observant silence. I looked out upon this sea of strangers in a rather more charitable mood.

For a brief few moments, the crowd parted like a fog bank and gave me a glimpse of a curious tableau: King Daphnes Harkinian stood amid a circle of onlookers. A subdued smile shown beneath his beard. The King listened intently to some tale being spun by the much shorter, stouter man before him – Lord Tashiel Lon. Tash looked as he had at my knighting ceremony – though now red-faced and gripping an ostentatiously tall stein of beer.

Surrounding the pair was an odd-looking mix of hangers-on and twitchy security types. Legionary guards in suits, I supposed. Some were Shiekah men with tightly trimmed beards and identical facial veves, who looked on as if observing the movement of the celestial spheres.

It took a moment to recognize yet another familiar face – that of Crown Princess Ilia Harkinian. She lingered near her father like a reluctant familiar, eyelids drooping and mouth turned in an eternal frown. Her dark gown blended with the gathered suit pants and coats so well that I considered that the camouflage might be intentional.

And of course, Zelda was there. Of course she was. She stood so unobtrusively that I didn't even notice her at first – and this despite the deep color of her garments. She hung back just slightly – just barely present. A constant phantom in the background, face shaded by the cowl of her cloak. When she turned, her irises glinted in hooded darkness.

I thought about a certain bell in my pocket and wondered how the handmaiden would react if I rang it then. Thank God I resisted the urge.

Tash threw up one hand as if moving to toss confetti. Some accompanying gesture meant to enhance the story. His indulgent laughter rang across the ballroom. The King joined him with a series of gruff, breathless chuckles.

"Let me guess what you're thinking."

Anton Baeleus leaned to me, a conspiratorial flicker blazing in the back of his eyes. He said, "You're wondering why the High King of all Hyrule is such fast chums with this upstart farmer Lord. A man who hasn't even _been_ a Lord for all that long, I dare say."

Irritably: "Hey. I like the Lons. I like 'em a lot, actually."

He raised his arms defensively. "I did not imply anything about Lord Lon's _likeability_, old chap. Of that, I will make no argument."

"Okay."

I watched as Princess Ilia rolled her eyes at some exaggerated jape Tash had just made. She crossed her arms in melodramatic exasperation and stomped back through the wall of people surrounding the King. Silent as a shadow, Zelda melted after her.

"If you must know," I said, "yes. I was thinking along those lines. It's a bit odd, I guess. They seemed like old drinking buddies back at the court audience."

"Perhaps not so familiar as that, but they do share a certain affinity," Anton said. "When you get down to the heart of it, the King likes Lord Lon because the King likes unpretentious men." Anton glanced my way. "I suspect that's why he likes _you_, dear boy."

I didn't know whether to puff up with pride or prickle with offense. I ended up with a little of both.

"Hey, I'm still in the dark here." I shook my head. "Besides, isn't that a bit reductive?"

"Not at all, old chap. It's all part and parcel of who King Daphnes Harkinian is, you know."

"I really don't," I grumbled.

Anton elucidated, "Old Daphnes there has always been something of a man of the people, so to speak. His early years were marked by a desire to join the Royal Legions and fight alongside his subjects. They called him the 'Rough Prince,' since he seemed so fascinated with peasants' ways. He ended up running away, you know. When he was a boy – before he was King. He managed to slip out of the Imperial Palace and make it past the city limits before anyone was the wiser. For his part, the escape was a roaring success. It was near six months before he was found, apprenticing for some contractual knight in the Stony Vales."

"No shit?"

"None!" Anton confirmed. "Only his coronation and subsequent marriage calmed the boy who became our illustrious King. In fact, it was only by dint of the goddesses' will that he even became King. The youngest of six sons, was Daphnes Harkinian. Unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately, as ghastly as that sounds – that entire generation of Harkinians was wiped out by the Glimmering Plague. His brother Ramius reigned for so short a time that he did not even receive a title after he died. 'Ramius the Unlucky,' one might venture."

I watched the King speak stolidly with Tash Lon. His low words came slowly – steadily – haltingly. I tried to imagine him much younger – even younger than I was. All I could fall back on was the painting I had seen of him as he stood beside his Queen. Such a strange notion.

"You should really do this tour guide shit for a fuckin' living," I said buzzily. "Such teaching I'm getting all up in here."

Anton laughed, "Shall we continue said touring, then?"

"Abso-fucking-lutely."


	6. 6

**6**

In the deepening night, the ballroom glittered – shimmered – glowed. A tangerine-gold radiance. The incessant whisper-swirl of politely leveled conversation echoed through the room in a tide.

Our rounds continued. With Anton Baeleus running interference and quite a bit of wine in my belly, I was feeling fairly brazen. Thus, I was probably less than properly respectful during my brief visits with Lord Eldin ("How's it hangin', sir?"), Lord Chovo ("I crossed your land once. It seemed nice."), and Count Hector Embrov ("To be frank, the difference between Counts n' Lords confused the shit out of me for a bit.").

The evening's path headed back toward the grand entrance of the ballroom. It was here that I spotted someone that I had promised myself I would avoid at the beginning of the night. Alas, wine and hubris undo the plans of even the greatest of men.

"Shad, man!" I all-but-bellowed.

At my side, Anton skidded to a stop. He spun about topsy-turvy, drink sloshing, to see just who it was I had jabbered at.

A few yards away, a tiny court of alchemists was gathered. It appeared to be presided over by a hunched figure draped with a sackcloth cloak and hidden by an androgynous white mask. The same curious creature I had seen during my first inspection of the crowd. Standing at the side of the cloaked man was Shad. The goldenrod light of the chandeliers cast inverted half-moons across his spectacles.

I made my impetuous way to the edge of this ostentatious gathering. Anton sputtered apologies to crowdgoers as he followed. A gallery of odd ornaments and goofball hats turned to look at me. Alchemist dignitaries shuffled uncomfortably at my approach – a rustling of orange ponchos and olive pea-coats.

Shad bent close to the masked man and whispered. The stranger produced a movement that might have been a nod, but could have been anything. Without a word or gesture of acknowledgment, the man (or perhaps woman) in burlap and porcelain turned away. The suggestion of a limb beckoned the other alchemists after it. The group departed, heading in a loyal flock behind the masked man just as I was arriving. Only Shad remained.

"Sir Olsen," Shad pronounced. "It is fine to see you again."

Was it, really?

"You too! Swanky party, huh?" I blustered.

The young alchemist held no drink nor nibbled any hors d'oeuvres. He wasn't even particularly dressed up – his suit was a plain brown and he was wrapped in the same tired waistcoat he had worn in Oloro Town. His appraisal of me was dispassionate.

After a seemingly customary period of analysis, Shad said, "Indeed it is. I was honored to be chosen as a representative of my Guild."

I could feel Anton at my shoulder, suddenly the odd man out. He said nothing.

"Cool, cool. You look like you're making the most of it. I'm just making the rounds," I blathered.

Somewhere, multiple glasses clinked together. A liquid-and-crystal resonance.

Shad gazed at me with mild expectation, quiet as a test proctor. Had there really been something more implied by the end of my last statement? Nonplussed, I babbled, "So – uh – who's the guy you were talking to? The, um, dude in the mask. Kind of spooky?"

If Shad was offended, he did a marvelous job hiding it. He said flatly, "That was the Guildmaster for the Guild of Strangers. My mentor and superior."

"What's his name? Guildmaster So-and-So, I mean."

Shad's eyes twitched. Suppressing something that might have been annoyance and might have been outright anger, he said, "He has no name. He is simply the Guildmaster."

"Huh?"

"Then I take it that you are unfamiliar with the traditions of the Guild of Strangers?"

"Um. No?"

For the first time, Anton had to visibly cut in. "I dare say that Sir Olsen still has quite a bit to learn about our ways, old chap."

The alchemist eyed Anton Baeleus with the same kind of blank-yet-haughty stare he had given me when first we met. He sighed melodramatically. Shad explained, "As initiates we toss away our family names. The only ties we retain are to the Guild. The higher one climbs in our order, the more of one's previous identity is shed. Master Strangers don masks, foregoing even appearance."

I nodded appreciatively, even while experiencing a gruesome chill. "And the Guildmaster . . ." I began.

"Has nothing," Shad completed. "He is without name, history, clan, or face. He is the embodiment of the Guild of Strangers. Advancement without ambition; progress without greed; alchemy without self. We are men of pure intention."

It was all I could do not to shudder. Something about this assertion was intensely disturbing. It was such a lightless, desiccated notion. I managed to keep these thoughts to myself. Instead, I said, "How does that even work?"

"Though we specialize in alchemy, we are no Strangers to pure sorcery. There are . . . _proprietary_ hexes within our canon that allow the erasure of memory and history."

"Proprietary . . .?"

"Yes."

"But whose memory gets rubbed out?"

"Everyone's, dear boy," Anton interjected. "The whole world."

"So far as we can tell," Shad said dryly.

God, could these people get any creepier? Do not answer that, o goddesses. I think you bitches have a pretty warped sense of humor when it comes to one-upmanship.

Off in the periphery, some of the alchemists I had interrupted were giving us the eye. Not so much suspicion or distaste – more a hungry sort of curiosity. Examiners' hands spidered across cups and goblets. Pendants jangled with their antsy movements.

Leave it to Anton to break that silence that follows uncomfortable revelations. "Hmmm yes, quite the renowned fellows, our Guild of Strangers. On the up-and-up, one hears."

"If you insist," Shad said. He studied Anton and me with eyes that might have been looking over a pair of dissected frogs. Even Anton seemed a bit weirded out by the expectant quiet that followed. Shad said nothing – just looked on with that impassive, clinical, unnerving gaze.

"Oh, indeed," Anton laughed. "Very fine to meet you, ah, Shad – but I believe that –"

The alchemist interrupted him with a curt, "Sir Olsen."

"Bwuh?"

He slipped a forefinger up to the bridge of his spectacles. "I am still highly interested in examining that sword of yours more closely. Master Sword or no, it is quite an intriguing artifact."

Good lord. Really? Still?

"Well – I – I think that's . . ." I shook my head, squeezed my eyes shut, and realized that I was feeling that glorious internal unraveling that only comes when one stops giving a fuck. I finally sighed, "Y'know . . . I dunno. Maybe I can arrange that. I'm still not clear on how things are gonna run for me from here on out."

"Will you?" Shad asked incredulously.

"Yeah. Why not? It's not like I've got much to prove anymore."

Shad's cocked eyebrow asserted otherwise. The fucker.

"In any event," I exhaled, "if I'm not back out pounding snouts before too long, I guess I can lend you this bad boy. I'll have to clear it with the higher-ups, of course."

"Of course," Shad echoed. I waited for some continuation of the sentiment – some addendum or remark or casual exclamation. Instead, the grim-looking alchemist merely stood and stared, a whiff of annoyance about him.

"I guess I'd best let you go," I said slowly. "Um. Yeah. Nice talking to you."

"Likewise." Nothing but sangfroid and contempt.

I took my graceless leave of Shad and the constellation of chatting alchemists. Within moments of my departure, men in green suits and silver sashes sidled up to Shad for a hushed, excited word. They stared after me with a hungry curiosity that I found rather bothersome.

When I reunited with Anton, he favored me with an irritating smirk. "You've misled me, Sir Olsen. You made it seem that you hadn't made any friends here in the capital yet."

"Pfft," I blew out. "If that's a friend, I'd hate to see my enemies."

Never mind that I _had _seen those enemies. I was too buzzed to beat back images of black suits, machetes, and blurring axes in the firelight. Another gulp of wine did not help.

"Well, why don't we go looking for some warmer company?" Anton offered. "As much as I enjoy watching you try to mend bridges with gentlemen who clearly dislike your company, I suspect it might eventually become tiresome."

"I guess it was a little intense, huh?" Slurp. "Dude has more or less had it out for me ever since Oloro Town. Seems to think I'm unfit for the job or some such shit."

"Are you?" Anton asked. Though I was finally getting used to his japes, I was still a little hurt by the assertion.

As such, I settled for growling, "Hey. Fuck off."

Anton cackled quietly – at least, as quietly as one can cackle – and waved me on.

However, I had other concerns to attend to – that most natural of results from constant drinking. I raised a hand, stopped mid-stride, and announced, "I need to use the john."

"I beg your pardon?"

Without prompting, I handed Anton my goblet for safekeeping. "The privy, I mean," I coughed. I couldn't help but note that passers-by had slowed or outright paused to listen in. Their interest in this mundane exchange struck me as absurd at best.

Anton shrugged, hefting glass and goblet like holy relics. "I suppose that certain needs are more pressing than others," he said. He gestured with the tumbler toward the wall, where I could just make out a smallish door hidden behind the throng's undulating shadows. "Shall I meet you at that door?"

"Sure, why not?"

"Well then – do as you will. Shouldn't be too far down that hallway."

I made a drunk-ass departure, pushing out across the room. Every eye turned to track my progress. Gossipmongers be damned.

I heard drums. Very low and uncertain. A sinuous tabla beat.

At the door I scooted between a pair of bored-looking guardsmen, probably enlivening their evening considerably with my idiot fumbling. Beyond was a tight little corridor lit only by candle sconces. The place smelled of old cooking and mud dust.

I discovered the privy easily enough. A claustrophobic water closet with a stone commode, burbling a constant flow of fountain water. Downright luxurious for Hyrule. I found the closet pungent with the stink of someone's recent expulsions. As I added gold to the tiny waterfall, I stared at an inscription in jagged chalk atop the opposite wall. Hylian graffiti of a particularly emphatic and incomprehensible sort. A low-cultural invasion of the social apex.

"Oh, good," I muttered.

Finished, I released a satisfied, overloud sigh. Achievement unlocked.

I emerged from the side hallway as if passing from quiet purgatory into a kind of banal paradise. That ineffable twinkle suffused the air, seemingly born aloft by the tidal murmur of conversation. Outside the promenade doors, alchemic torches hissed. Inside, the chandelier candles blazed and every face was drawn sharply in black and gold.

Anton stayed sterling to his word. The nobleman stood exactly where he said he would. He toasted me with glass sloshing amber-dark and said, "Feel better, Sir Olsen?"

"Spectacularly."

"Splendid! Now, shall we return to the task at hand?"

I cast about for my goblet, which was not in Anton's hand and was sorely missed. "I wasn't aware that this was a 'task.' Though that really doesn't surprise me."

"Turns of phrase, Sir Olsen. Turns of phrase." He began strolling back into the ballroom proper.

"So what's next on the itinerary?" I asked.

Anton said, "Ah, I have met someone that I suspect you will be quite pleased to speak with."

A whiff of foreboding; a sniff of curiosity. Our path parted the blueblood ocean.

Despite the damp night air breathing in from the promenade windows, the room had begun to take on a sultry, sweltering aspect. Sweat gathered its strength beneath my suit collar. Numerous ladies and a few pragmatic gentlemen had unfurled paper fans. Their ink-print patterns swished languidly through the warming air.

Sidelong to Anton, I said, "Um. Don't suppose you have that cup of mine stashed on you? I'm getting a tad thirsty."

Anton shrugged and sighed, "Unfortunately, I must confess that I mislaid it whilst you were performing your ablutions."

"Oh."

Anton was commiserative – possibly genuine in his guilt. "I do apologize for your beverage, old bean. I shall procure you another forthwith."

"Actually," I said, "I should probably get some water to start off."

Anton threw me a glance that implied I had just said something unseemly.

"What?" I chuffed. "So I like to pace myself." A lie, but not one in that present moment. The night was proving to be enough of a rollercoaster – no need to encourage it completely off the tracks.

Still appearing a bit offended by the very notion of slowing a hard drunk, Anton allowed, "Well. Quite. One supposes. First, we must track down one of these wily and elusive serving-men. I've half a mind that they are intentionally avoiding us."

"Yes. They are a slippery bunch."

This turned out to be much easier said than done, adding some minutes onto what should have been a swift and painless journey. We swept like clueless treasure hunters into the candlelit center of the ballroom. Each server we waylaid seemed just as nonplussed by the request for water as Anton had been. It was only when the search seemed hopeless that I finally spotted a crystalline decanter resting atop a serving tray, atop an outstretched arm, surrounded by a sentinel ring of shining tumblers. By the time the dew-beaded glass was resting in my fingers, I half-believed that it would disintegrate into a sand-sifted mirage.

So caught up in the hunt was I that I completely forgot about the appointment Anton had been steering me toward when I asked for refreshment. Thus, it came as quite the surprise when, as we passed into an archipelago of appetizer-mounded tables, Anton perked up with an ingratiating grin. He stopped, bowed, and spoke toward a table some yards to my right.

"Ah, that's where you've gotten to, Legionary! I must apologize for being so remiss in our timeliness. There were greetings to be exchanged and cocktails to be obtained and so forth. I do beg your pardon," Anton chuckled.

"That's okay. I – um – was just taking a look at this spread."

I turned, blinking, unexpectedly struck by the familiarity of that voice.

A single fairy sat on the table. Her dark eyes and sea-blue aura were instantly recognizable. The edges of her form pulsed with an uncertain rhythm. Her twig-thin legs dangled over the table's edge, swinging back and forth. Her body was swathed in what appeared to be a doll-sized version of the gray legionary dress uniform. As I approached, a half-glimpsed hand rose and tugged apprehensively at an unyielding collar.

Oh. Her.

Anton and I closed the gap. By the time we reached her perch, the fairy had stood and, with a gossamer flutter of wings, begun to hover in midair. She was a constant undulation of movement – twitching body, tilting head, limbs shifting position like a bored schoolchild. This – combined with the scraping headache that fairies tended to summon – made observing her directly something of a thankless chore.

With the same broad gestures he had used to introduce me to a veritable rainbow of nobility over the last hour, Anton Baeleus said: "Sir Olsen, I would like to introduce to – well, 'introduce' is not the correct word. 'Reacquaint,' perhaps. In any event, I give you Prime Legionary Navi of Xen, Second Legion Scout Corps."

Navi, eh? The revelation had little punch. Of course it was Navi. Who else would it be? Nothing was a coincidence. All danced to the whims of Fate. I filled my mouth with water and wished it was wine.

"Hey, man." A tiny outlined hand rose in hesitant greeting. "I mean – um. Hello, Sir Olsen. Sir."

I returned the greeting, mouth dry and throat tight. "Hi. Um, good to see you again. Been a bit."

"Yeah. Since Kerneghi. Not that – well, haha – we knew each other before then. But still. Kind of an intense meeting, right?"

Navi giggled. There was a touch of Valley Girl in her voice – quick and brash and flighty. Alicia Silverstone in _Clueless_. Maddening.

Anton strode casually to the table. His eyes inspected the foodstuffs seriously. He said, "I don't know whether you were aware, Sir Olsen, but Legionary Navi was also awarded for bravery and great service for her actions at Kerneghi Gorge. She delivered vital information about the movements and weaknesses of the enemy's northern flank. Some say that her missive is what allowed the counterattack that pushed the snouts back across the valley."

"I don't doubt that it helped," Navi said, all humility. "Besides, there are a lot of guys like me here tonight. Everyone who won battlefield honors at the gorge was invited to this thing."

Who was this? Where was the fearless, foul-mouthed creature I had seen that night on the battlefield? This demure jitteriness was certainly a switch from the fairy I had seen knock an armored moblin off his feet.

"Mmmyes, indeed," Anton nodded. "If I might be so bold, you were far from the only hero to come out of Stoneheart Province, Sir Olsen." He selected a chunk of pale orange cheese from a tray, sniffing at it experimentally.

I nodded enthusiastically. "Dude, don't I know it. She's a hell of a hero to me. This girl saved my ass. Anton, man, you should have seen the number she did on this guy who was about to pound my head in. Broke his entire goddamn face with one blow."

Navi shrugged and tittered. "Well, I kind of had some momentum going. And I was really pissed off about the whole 'trying to kill me' thing. Besides," her voice slowed and quieted, "I was just returning the favor."

I waved ineffectively with my glass. Water sloshed over its rim and dribbled pitter-patter to the fine veneer of the floor. "Aw, shit," I grumbled. "I mean – grah – it wasn't even a thing." I glanced at her, meeting the pain-inducing pinpricks of her eyes. "What other choice did I have?"

Though Anton nodded sagely at this non-wisdom, Navi twisted in midair with the force of her shaking head. She insisted, "You could have gotten away from that clearing without ever lifting a finger. You could have run or hid or just watched. I was . . . I was _fucked_, man. Those snout shitheads had me dead to rights and if you hadn't come along . . ."

"I was . . . kind of following you," I confessed. The water glass swept up and I swallowed hoarsely.

Navi fluttered quietly, tilting her head back and forth. She never blinks, I realized. Those tiny jeweled eyes never faltered. Combined with with the needle-through-the-skull sensation of simply looking at her, the epiphany made the conversation genuinely daunting.

"Why didn't you – I dunno – call out or something before?" the fairy finally asked.

I shrugged. "I watched a whole shitload of fairies come out fighting for Ganon during the opening of the battle. I was hurt and confused and separated from my cohort – you could have been anybody. I couldn't have risked it. It was only when the mobs captured you that I knew exactly what side you were fighting for."

Navi released a strange sound then – a quiet, whistling, resonant trill. It was at once musical and dissonant; breath-filled and weirdly artificial. At the same moment, the hot center of her glowing blue mantle flashed a soft, iridescent green. Just a single pulse of jade-like light – and then the field about her once more shone blue as polished glass.

Before I could remark on the odd outburst, Navi muttered, "And I had to go and fuck it up by basically admitting I was with the legions. If I weren't such an idiot, I could have at least tried to convince them that I was on their side."

Anton's eyebrows stitched together. He said, "A genuine issue. Quite a few fairies in the Protectorate." The nobleman dunked his cheese in a saucer of red jam and then stuffed it in his mouth.

I suggested, "Right. Like those, uh, guys. Those fairies from – you know –"

"Kyr Colony," Anton growled. Fruit seeds and bits of cheese dotted his teeth. "May their corpses one day litter fair Twill soil. Din willing." He gulped his drink with an open anger I had not yet seen on the man.

"Y-yeah. Those guys," Navi said. "I could have . . . at least tried. And since I didn't, the only reason I'm here talking to you . . . is you."

All three of us took a moment to mull the gravity – and undeniable veracity – of this statement. Navi allowed herself to flutter down to her previous perch among the hors d'oeuvres, where she picked up a goblet roughly the size of a child's thimble. She held it in both hands as she sipped. Her wings stretched and flexed, stretched and flexed.

I decided with sobering clarity to reroute the dour track of the current conversation. After all the time I had spent in Hyrule, I was finally sitting down (so to speak) to actually speak with a fairy. Though I had met dozens in my travels, at no point had I actually engaged one in anything resembling meaningful conversation. C'mon, Linus – it's obvious that she's already a bit gobstruck by this whole thing anyway. Break out the small talk. Soothe those shredded nerves.

So, with all the grace of a high-schooler engaging his crush in the hallway, I said, "I'm kind of unfamiliar with the whole naming thing here. Does 'of Xen' mean you're from the Xen Colony?"

"Um . . . y-yeah," the fairy stammered.

Anton chuckled, "I would venture that you are better-informed about naming conventions than you let on, Sir Olsen."

"Lucky guess," I shrugged. "But I'm in the dark on everything else, more or less. For one thing, which one is Xen? I know there are two colonies here in Hylium – which one is which?"

"Oh, that is quite simple, good fellow," Anton opined. "Xen Colony sits on the arcade along the north bank of the Dro River. Their colonial color is blue, like the Prime Legionary here. Quee Colony is surrounded by the complex of estates of the same name which occupy the southerly hills above the city. Those unfortunate sorts sport a golden shine. I believe that I have quite belabored my poor opinion of their number."

Navi cut in, "So – yeah. Xen is my home colony. Where I take my leave and all that. I definitely hang out on the arcade while I'm in town. That said, the Legion is my real home."

"Always a delight to meet such a devoted soldier – especially one under my brother's command," Anton observed, slurping his cocktail.

Navi nodded emphatically. "Oh, yes, very much so. _Totally_. General Baeleus is a great man. He personally signed the order to promote me to Prime Legionary. He even recommended me for a future officer's commission! How cool is that?"

I bristled at the mention of Renaldo, but managed to tamp it down into a kind of slouching petulance. I mumbled, "So very, very cool. Yay." Any mention of the General made me want to snag the nearest drink and chug it frat-boy style.

A pair of young women with identical jade-green hairdos sashayed past our post. They ogled our group openly and giggle-whispered behind cupped hands.

A slingshot slap of a thought lightened my mood instantly. As if I might lose it within moments, I immediately gave it voice. "Hey – that reminds me. Something's been nagging at me. I mean, ever since we met at Kerneghi. You're a girl, right?"

Lord, how I wish I could reach back across the years and punch myself in the back of the head.

"Um," Navi said, "yes?"

"Yeah. Of course. Sorry. Anyway, I thought women weren't allowed in the legions. Does that just apply to Hylians? Is there, like, an exception for fairies?"

Anton grinned, but said nothing. He arched his eyebrows comically and raised his glass in anticipation of an answer.

Navi's laughter was so nervous it sounded as if it were going to bubble over into hysteria. "Well," Navi chirped, "when I joined up, I may have possibly sort of changed my voice and disguised myself as male."

"Holy shit!" I laughed. "You're joking."

"Haha no, no. I mean – yes. I did. I pretended to be a dude for almost a year before another fairy ratted me out. Quee bastard. Anyway, I guess I had distinguished myself pretty well by then, because the higher-ups decided to keep me on. Gave me one hell of a chewing-out, but that was it."

Anton and I nodded thoughtfully, almost in concert. "Nice," I drawled.

Navi continued, in a buzzing breathless barrage, "I'm not even the only woman in the Royal Legions, you know. There are other exceptions to the rule, for any number of reasons. I know a grenadier from the First – a goron named Clo. Fierce little bitch. There are also female scouts working irregularly for some of the line legions. And I hear there are all sorts of lady healers working with the alchemic detachments . . ."

"Not to mention the women who are still dressed up like men in order to join the fight," I said, smacking my lips after another draught of water.

Navi and Anton gazed at me silently. He bewildered; she drooping with embarrassment.

"What?" I said. "Isn't that supposed to happen all the time? In every war? You know – some chick putting on her father or brother's armor to join the army? _Mulan _shit?"

Their confusion deepened.

I sputtered, "Fine. Just – okay – just forget it."

As if abandoning a comrade wounded far beyond hope, Anton pressed on without me. "Your devotion to service for the kingdom is undeniably marvelous, Prime Legionary," Anton said. "Absolutely smashing."

"Thank you, Lord Baeleus. You're too kind."

"Ah, I don't think so. That you went so far beyond the pale to lend your skills to the Royal Legions is quite extraordinary." His smile could have charmed the dress off a mother superior. Pity he wasn't interested in such things. "Also, no lord am I. My brother – your General – is head of House Baeleus. I'm merely its heart." Sip. "And pretty face." Sip. "And personality."

Navi and I laughed politely as Anton said, quite seriously now, "Do please call me Anton. That goes for both of you – remember our earlier agreement, Sir Olsen."

"Okay," Navi conceded – though not without a hint of hesitation.

There was a sudden ripple of commotion out on the main floor of the ballroom, beyond the protective mesas of finger food. Not a great commotion, mind you – but the wave of whispers and shuffling feet was impossible to miss.

Princess Ilia Harkinian sashayed between the schools of revelers, dark blue eyes as tired and bored as if she were presiding over a mud auction. At her heels – maintaining a distance that I might have mistaken for casual if I didn't know the woman – flowed Zelda al-Imzadi. That ever-present violet shade. Their course took them straight to us.

"P-p-princess Ilia ohmigosh," Navi squeaked. She shot up at least a foot through the air, ramrod straight, the outlines of her arms wrapped about her thimble cup as if it were a life preserver.

The pair – one short, one tall; one but a girl, the other a woman solid as marble – strode right up to us. Princess Ilia stopped a yard out, examining the three of us with a naked mixture of curiosity and disdain. It was only when Anton bowed – deeply and almost contritely – that I remembered to do the same. I did not have Anton's seemingly mutant ability to balance a glass in one hand while doing so, and ended up raining yet more water onto the ground.

"Crown Princess!" Anton said. "We are honored by your presence."

The Princess waited with barely tolerant politeness for us to rise. As I did, I noticed that Navi was doing the same – though in midair. I was definitely the underachiever in this motley little band. Seemingly satisfied with our show of deference, Ilia breathed, "Mister Anton Baeleus, I presume."

Executing a little half-bow, Anton smiled, "My princess – it is truly a delight, as always. I believe we last met at the High Summer Ball, held in the Vineway Annex."

"Yes," Ilia frowned. "You are correct, sir. I believe that you were so inebriated that the guards had to coax you down from one of the Annex's elm trees. You were singing, 'The Knights of Valley Faire,' if I recall correctly. Shall this evening end in a similar manner?"

"Hahahaha ah no, no, my dear. I assure you that it shall not. That was a rare and ribald occasion indeed."

"Splendid. I would not like to see a grown man carried bodily from the palace at any time in the near future. Again."

Ilia clasped her hands together and turned to Navi, whose glowing nimbus pulsed so brightly and so rapidly that she could have been used as an emergency signal. "Ah, and I believe you are . . ." The Crown Princess's brows knitted together with concentration. She grimaced with the effort, but this soon became a satisfied smile. "Prime Legionary . . . Navi? Navi! Navi of Xen. You are with General Renaldo's Second Legion, are you not?"

"Y-y-y-y-yes," Navi managed. Her voice was the stuttering drone of the starstruck.

"I heard of your heroism on the field of battle, Prime Legionary. I must thank you on behalf of the royal family and all the peoples of Hyrule. Your bravery is truly remarkable."

At this, Navi only trembled. Ironies upon ironies.

When it seemed that Ilia was about to disengage due to the awkward silence, the fairy scout suddenly erupted in a seamless gush of words. "CrownPrincessIliaitisavery greathonortomeetyouthankyou fromthebottomofomyheartfor invitingmetothisoccasion! Myownbraveryisnothingcompare dtoallthemenwhofellbyGanon'sswords. Oh – and and and – Iwouldn'tevenbestandinghereifnotfor CaptainOlsen!" Navi babbled. I wondered if it were possible for fairies to hyperventilate.

"I . . . see," said Ilia, eyebrow cocked. It was impossible to know just how much of the manic monologue she had actually understood. "In any event, your presence here tonight is much welcome. Please avail yourself of all the pleasures of the Imperial Palace."

At last, the adolescent royal swept her gaze upon me. I tried to reciprocate the same level of chilliness in her eyes. "Congratulations on your knighthood, Sir Olsen," she sniffed. "That is all. I have nothing else to say to you."

With that as her parting call, the Princess elbowed past me, skimming the edge of the snacks like a wounded bird. She paused. With a sneaky flicker of her eyes, the Princess snatched a handful of twillberries from a heap near the end of the table. As she headed back out into a magnanimously parting crowd, Ilia popped a berry into her mouth with a sly little smile.

I felt a swish of movement and a presence at my shoulder. Zelda blinked emotionlessly, watching her ward go even as she spoke. "How goes the evening, Sir Olsen?"

"Oh, just super," I allowed.

Zelda nodded, drawing her eyes deliberately across my company. Both Navi and Anton regarded her with a kind of amiable caution. She said, "Yes, it does appear that you are at greater ease than last I saw you. Very good, Sir Olsen. Shall I check in with you at mealtime?"

"Sounds good."

"Excellent." Zelda bowed slightly to each of my conversation partners. "Mister Baeleus. Prime Legionary. Pray excuse the interruption." And then she was off, sliding in pursuit of her Princess.

"Well," Navi said.

"Yes," Anton said.

"So _that _just happened," I said.

"The Princess!" Navi enthused.

"Oh yeah," I sighed.

"Such a charming girl," Anton mused.

I muttered, "Yeah. She and your brother should start a club."

"So who was the other one?" Navi asked.

"Zelda," I said morosely. "She's my, um, attendant."

Navi – with that bizarre, dumb-blonde lilt – asked, "So, like, why is she following the Princess around?"

I gave her a _Reader's Digest _version of how Zelda had been pressed into my service. Or perhaps I into hers – frankly, the distinction was beginning to lose all clarity.

"Zelda al-Imzadi. Infamous scourge of the Imperial Palace," Anton whistled. "I must admit that I had heard that you had been assigned her. Pity that it wasn't just a rumor, old bean. You have my condolences."

"Eh, she's not that bad." Strange. I actually felt a bit defensive about her.

Ever the engine of conversation, Anton perked up, "So, where were we? Discussing the arc of Legionary Navi's illustrious service, as I recall." He turned to the fairy, nodding and smiling graciously. "Pray tell – will you return up-country then following this, ah, occasion? Back to the Line and all that?"

Navi shook her head. She explained, "I got some leave as part of the promotion. It'll be a couple of weeks before I have to go back. Besides . . ." The tiny legionary seemed to hesitate.

Anton's brow wrinkled. He asked, "However . . . what?"

She fidgeted. It was quite a thing to see in mid-hover. "I've put in for a transfer. To the First. I want to get stationed here, in Hylium. I've been told that I'll hear back on that within a week."

Anton produced an appreciative, "Hmm!" He appeared genuinely impressed. "Quite a quick turnaround! The Legionary bureaucracy usually drags its heels when it comes to such requests. Months of ignoring the issue, I'm told. Fine way to make use of that heroic status. Eh, Sir Olsen?"

"Yep," I agreed, not really knowing what it was that I was agreeing with.

"Well . . ." Navi began sheepishly.

"No shame in it, dear lady. None at all. Take any and all advantage, I always say," Anton opined. "Though I rather think that my brother will be hopping mad to lose such a skilled – not to mention renowned – scout."

"He's definitely not happy about it" Navi said. "But I think he'll eventually approve the transfer. Actually, the general wasn't as angry as I thought he'd be."

"Curious," said Anton.

"Why the move?" I asked.

It was hard to tell, but Navi seemed to be avoiding my gaze. "I . . . I just want to help where it's needed most."

"But . . ." I began, then trailed off uncertainly. I had meant to point out that a scout and/or spy would be more or less useless here in the capital, far from enemy lines. Then came the germination of an idea – an idea sprouting from the increasingly rich soil of my animosity with General Renaldo Baeleus.

How interesting that this acclaimed spy and saboteur was transferring to my Legion at the same time I was joining up. How interesting the coincidence.

Except that it couldn't be a coincidence, could it? I doubted that even Navi herself would deny the connection.

My guts began to spin.

Tighten up, the Other Me whispered. You need to be extra careful around this girl. Even if you never see her again after tonight, you cannot trust that this creature won't be keeping tabs on you for dear old Lord Baeleus.

These ugly thoughts had apparently started to affect my manner, because all of a sudden Anton was stepping close and cheerily announcing, "Though it's been jolly good to meet you, Prime Legionary, I am afraid that Linus and I have appointments elsewhere. Isn't that right, Sir Olsen?"

"Oh – yes. Yeah. Definitely." To Navi, "See you later, probably."

"For sure," agreed Navi. "Once the transfer's final and my leave's up, you'll probably see me around legionary headquarters. I should be settling in with the First's scout corps in a few weeks."

Trying to outrun the dread this declaration pressed into me, I said, "Well – until then."

"Yeah."

"Cool."

Anton studied at us with a flat smile. With his usual icebreaking grace, he gestured to me with a near-empty glass and said, "Shall we?"

"Right, right," I coughed.

Anton bid Navi a fine evening, and then began tromping at my side. With an unbidden suddenness, a playfully sadistic thought occurred to me. Something to test that unpleasant new ideas.I turned and, casually as possible, said, "Oh, Prime Legionary Navi?"

"Yes?"

"Shouldn't you have to salute? I _am _your superior officer now. Captain and all that. Might reflect, ah, _poorly_ on you if you didn't show the proper respect."

Navi flared a bright, headachy blue. The fairy made a chirruping sound that seemed half-angry and half-mortified. Her arm flew in diagonal legionary salute. "Apologies, sir! Won't happen again, Captain Olsen!" Her voice wavered with a suddenly bitter, borderline sarcastic quality.

At once, I felt like a shithead – largely because I _was _a shithead. How many other power-drunk fuckwads had I seen run exactly the same kind of "joke" past those arbitrarily in their thrall? With that one lapse, I had become every narcissistic boss, myopic middle-manager, and overcompensating crew chief that had ever strutted like a nude emperor through the corridors of my life. Suddenly, I didn't care whether this fairy had been sent to spy on me. All that mattered were those minutes we had spent together among the muck and blood and shattered bone of the battlefield. All that mattered was that I had – like some jocular slave-driver – just insulted and humiliated the girl who not long ago had saved my life.

"Hey," I muttered, "that's – hey. Sorry. That was a shitty joke."

Navi uncoiled from her stiff salute, body language alien and unreadable. "Sir?" she buzzed.

"I apologize. Didn't mean to make it seem like you had fucked up."

Navi said nothing. Her form darted side to side, an animal in a zoo cage. She examined me as if she no longer knew how to behave in my presence. Suddenly the back of my scalp itched like mad – and me with a single functioning hand, now full of cup.

"I really do owe you my life, Navi. I'd say that affords us the ability to be more casual. It's okay, honest. It's like Anton asked – please just call me Linus." I chewed on that a moment, then added, "Unless we're in the presence of other legionaries, I guess. Then we might as well keep up the charade. But seriously – I don't really give a shit. I've never been in the military before, so this whole rank-and-file thing doesn't come to me naturally."

"Obviously," she hissed. "Otherwise, you'd be referring to me as 'Prime Legionary.'"

"Sorry."

"No need to apologize, _sir_," barked Navi. "Wouldn't want to break the rules of conduct, _sir_. Just tell me now – is this who you really are? _Sir_?"

Ah. _There _was the little blue comet – the shrieking creature who had all but pulverized a moblin's jaw with her hands.

"Hey now," I cautioned. "Prime Legionary."

Corrosively, "Please. _Call me Navi._"

"Are we really arguing about this? Are we really doing this?"

Anton coughed discreetly. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed partygoers stopping to stare at the exchange.

"Captain," Navi huffed. She seemed to calm, to slow, to vibrate just a shade more slowly. "No – listen. If we're going to work together, sir –"

"Linus."

Navi trilled, "Yes, yes. If we're going to, like, actually work together . . . you need to know that I have a bit of a temper. You saw that at Kerneghi and . . . well, right now. I'll fall in line like a good soldier if you want me to, but I don't operate well under – and please excuse me – fuckheads. Are you a fuckhead, sir?"

I let loose an involuntary, astonished laugh. Beside me, Anton stared with jaw unhinged.

"Sometimes . . . yeah," I admitted. "It's a bad habit. Are we really going to be working together?"

"Why do you think I transferred?" she said bluntly. "I told you that I would pay you back, Sir Olsen. I said that and I aim to make due on it."

I nodded deliberately, suddenly a bit stunned. Turning over my previous suspicions, I felt ever more the fuckhead.

"Will you let me help you then, Hero?" Navi asked coolly. "Or are you gonna clown around and keep pissing me off?"

"Yeah. Absolutely. If you can accept my apology."

". . . Sure. I'm pretty much over it."

"You're a firecracker," I said bashfully. "It's kind of cool."

More people in the peanut gallery were sidling close, a little too late to see the great Hero vs. Hero bout.

The fairy's globe of blue oscillation expanded and contracted like an erratic heart. "Thank you, Captain." Her acknowledgment was somehow remonstrative.

"You're welcome, Prime Legionary."

"Navi."

"Linus."

"You're a bit of a jackass, aren't you?" Navi laughed.

I shrugged, grinned, and raised my cup in a rather different sort of salute. "Guilty. Be seein' ya'."

"Back at you," Navi chirped. Another salute – this one so mocking that I couldn't help but smile.

Then it was back into the crowd – the bustle – the liquid light – the smell of perfume and wine and perspiration soaking clothes fine beyond speaking.


	7. 7

**7**

"That was certainly extraordinary," remarked Anton Baeleus.

"Phew. Yeah."

"I would say that that young lady just gave your bollocks a sound beating."

"That she did." I paused, thinking the encounter over, mindful of my feet as they propelled me between women with gowns like phosphorescent jellyfish. "Not to mention she sounds exactly like someone from _my _part of the world. It was like catching hell from one of the Pine Union cheerleaders."

"Hmm. She had a bit of a North Vale accent to my ears. Fairies truly do sound different to all listeners – even if the words are essentially the same," mused Anton.

"Helluva night."

"Oh, it has been jolly good fun, has it not? As your guide through this unique bit of social landscape, I highly recommend that you switch from that flaccid potion to something more potent."

". . . Back to booze, you mean."

"But of course!"

I considered this.

"Yeah, why not?"

Within five minutes, the glass of water in my hand had been exchanged for another goblet full of arterial-red wine. I found myself tilting back through the amoeba-like body of the gathering. Soft drumbeats and considerate strings shuffled my soles across the ballroom floor. Anton was ever my companion – whether he was cherub or demon, I did not know. No matter. I followed him out of curiosity now, rather than necessity. If anything, nothing would ever be boring in his presence.

As I sipped experimentally at the new drink, Anton exposited, "I, for one, believe that the young Prime Legionary will make an excellent addition to the First Legion – especially if the High General is going to make it a more active force, as the rumors tell."

"Oh?" I asked, not quite sure what to make of that allusion.

"In any event, she's a fine example of why I so prefer the company of Xen fairies. Earthy, unpretentious folk. Always up for a scrap or a bit of merrymaking. You really should walk the arcade below their colony – it's quite the sight, especially in festival season."

"I'll try to make the time," I said uncertainly. After that night, I had no idea of how _any _of my time would be spent. For all I knew, I would be handed a packet of legionary marching orders as I left the party.

The next swallow of wine was so startlingly sour that I had to wonder whether someone had finally slipped me poison while I wasn't looking. A sudden greasiness gripped my stomach. No – not poison at all. Not the acute kind, at least.

Oh, good. Please do this, Linus. Please – by all means – upchuck in the middle of every high-roller in the kingdom. That'll sell some society pages tomorrow morning.

Thanks to all the gods that the sensation passed with a quickness. I really liked that suit.

I needed to slow down. The sense of seabound momentum – that drunkard's velocity – was implacable.

I wheezed, "Gettin' kind of tired. Mind if we sit a spell?" Nausea aside, it was the truth. Though I was well on my way to recovery, I hadn't exactly had a great reservoir of energy since waking in Harkinian Keep.

Anton's grin belonged to a capering devil. "Nonsense, dear boy. You've simply not found your second wind. Forward, fellow! Courage and steel!"

I nodded grimly and tried to think manly thoughts. I must have looked quite awful, as Anton hesitated. He allowed a look of beneficent empathy to cross his features. He said, "I suppose that a bit of rest and fresh air won't _hurt _a man."

"Oh, thank God."

"This way, then," Anton beckoned.

In my advancing drunkenness, the ballroom became ever more impressionistic – even surreal. The far distances elongated into leagues and close ones snapped together. Between the striated pillars, polished floor, and vaulted ceiling we all stood as if floating, basking in a torpid sea of umber light.

Despite the distinguished company, the ballroom had begun to smell of armpits and exhaustion. Perhaps this was why – as Anton allowed me a moment – two-dozen serving-men in sharp dress suddenly appeared from the sides of the room. They fanned out in a formation that was almost avian. They brought with them bundles wrapped in sheer white cloth and wooden boxes that jangled beneath their handles.

"What's all that about?" I asked tiredly.

"I do believe that the servants wish to rearrange accoutrements for supper," said Anton. "The implication being that we should move away from the center of the room. I am happy to report that we are quite a ways ahead of them in that intent."

"Dinner soon, then?" The prospect was delightful.

"It would appear so."

There were sounds of scuffling, rearranging, jangling, fluttering. We proceeded away from the unfolding fracas at a leisurely sort of trot. Our destination: the very end of the room, where those grand windows opened upon the garden promenade.

It felt wonderful to draw nearer to the yawning exit. The night air pouring through caressed coolly across my skin. Scents of departed rain and wet grass wafted on its current.

Many partygoers now strolled the balcony beyond the doors. In the pulse of alchemic torches, their faces were etched in quartz. Elderly gentlemen leaned against the garden railing while legionary officers laughed together at private jokes. A pair of aging Shiekah women adjusted their wraps and inspected one another's veves. Fairy lights spun above the lawns like roving magic lanterns.

Among this night-basking crowd, I spied a rather distinct flourish of red hair above a white gown. That familiar spray of freckles; those sky-blue eyes. Malora Lon stood just within the doors, chatting amidst a sizeable group of ladies. At her side was Cremia Lon, decked out in an elegant daffodil gown and conversing with a sly, amiable ease.

I considered wandering over and engaging the two of them – after all, I hadn't yet introduced myself to either of the younger Lons. Whatever remained of my drink-withered common sense held me back.

To my surprise, another familiar face slipped from the crowd and began talking with Malora: Katherine Lanayru. For all her high bearing and Jane Austen mannerisms, Anton's betrothed spoke with Malora with genuine excitement. The elder Lon returned the enthusiasm. A silent vignette of friends reunited after some intolerable period of separation.

Well, of course, I thought. The world's always smaller than you think.

I gestured with my goblet and commented, "Looks like your fiancée and my . . ." God help me, I almost said "girlfriend." With a stutter, I said, "L-looks like Kath and Malora Lon are pretty good friends."

Anton raised his eyebrows and frowned. "Yes. Though I must admit that I am not terribly well acquainted with young Lady Lon." His glance was as deadpan as it was penetrating. "Unlike you, I gather."

Fucking hell, Linus – get that blush response under control. I held the brief hope that Anton would interpret it as the wine's roses in full bloom, but I was kidding myself. His lips curled slightly, impishly, knowingly. I took a greedy gulp searched for something else to talk about.

Fortunately, Anton was well ahead of me. As I filled the awkward moment with furious quaffing, he turned and gazed out into the migrating crowd. He brightened considerably.

"Now, _here _are some fellows you really should make yourself familiar with, Linus. I had planned to introduce you sooner, but alas they are quite literally a slippery bunch – to borrow a phrase, if I might."

I was relieved to have any reason not to dwell on my unquantifiable relationship with Malora. I followed his ingratiating palm. It led toward one of the shadow-and-ember-soaked corners of the ballroom, where a distinct subset of partygoers lingered. Most of the three or four-dozen figures wore elaborate, multi-layered robes in somber colors. Folds of gray, silver, black, and pale blue swished with their bearers' deliberate movements.

Perhaps it was the light – perhaps it was the wine – and perhaps I was really just as slow as everyone in Hyrule seemed to think I was. After some seconds, I realized with an irrepressible start that every one of these accumulated figures was very much inhuman.

Anton softly declared, "Behold the ambassadors and nobility of the Zora Nation!"

Surely I must have noticed them before, out of the corner of my eye as they flitted through the crowd. I had certainly seen zora in the city and on my way to the battlefields of Kerneghi. Yet, here I saw the zora as if for the first time. Here they stood unmasked, without facial wrappings or clothing sodden with gray water. Here they mingled as freely as any goron, fairy, or Hylian.

Zora skin (or was it scales?) had a grayish, foggy tint that shimmered with a constant sheen of moisture. Now I noticed that their flesh was swept with patches of dark brown, black, off-white, or metallic blue. These striking highlights varied in form and feature – some stood out in brilliant stripes; others traveled in brindle ladders down bare forearms; and yet others rose in spots and speckles atop high cheekbones.

The zoras' facial features were pinched and their noses were slightly flattened, but on careful inspection were closer to human than any of the other sentient species of Hyrule. I had honestly expected something a little more exotic. Almost all sported large and watchful eyes, devoid of lashes or brows. They gave an initial impression of normal humans completely shaved, doused in sweat, and sporting particularly flashy face paint.

Ah, but then one noticed the finer details – the aspects of zora anatomy that made them stand out as inhumanly as any moblin or goron. Their shrunken, barely discernible ears. The pale webbing between their long fingers, pulling taut whenever they extended their hands. That discomfited manner with which they walked through the ballroom. How they seemed to speak only in unintelligible whispers, opening their lips as little as possible.

Of course, the most striking aspect of the zora body was their fins. From what I could tell, every zora sported a pair of arc-shaped fins that sprouted from the outer edges of their forearms and ran wrist to elbow. These arm-fins spanned a fine array of colors –pearly white to iridescent blue; salmon pink to sunfish yellow. Each expanded and contracted with its owner's movements, like the unfolding curve of a paper fan.

One final zora feature struck me: Extending from the back of their bald heads and connecting to the upward curve of their necks was a small and almost quaintly decorative sort of extrusion. It swept back in a shape that was reminded me of a porpoise's dorsal fin.

When I had gotten a proper eyeful, I said, "Huh. So that's what they look like without all those rags on."

"Seen a few about Hylium, I take it?" Anton asked. Without waiting for an answer, he continued, "Probably incomers from Germaine's Lake, old chap. Generally a poor and shabby lot – though quite proud and hardworking, one would wager. One would have to be in order to make it in the West Side. No, Linus – these gentlemen and ladies are proper nobility of the Zora Nation."

We watched the aquatic people as they stiffly mingled.

Anton whispered, "It's said that one can find no surer allies than the zora." He timed his sips so flawlessly that they could only be planned aforethought. "Nor more vicious and intractable an enemy. They are a fierce, proud people. Their kind fought with Hyrule's Kings for centuries before the treaty finally allowed them their independence."

"Fun," I said.

"Come, let us approach. I shall point out some notables among their number."

As we sauntered closer, I was surprised to notice that the women of the contingent were far easier to pick out than I had been led to believe – after all, they clearly had breasts. This struck me as superbly odd. Fish with tits. Huh.

The zora women were also identifiable by their brightly patterned head-scarves, which they wore like loose-fitting hijabs. Under the scarves' sheer material, the crests of their head-fins were like half-glimpsed silhouettes beneath evening waves.

As we entered their perimeter, Anton pointed openly and with wine-brave abandon at a few of the fish-folk. He indicated a pot-bellied zora with zigzags of turquoise running down his arms: "Count Slaieen. All but cornered the lowland rice trade. House Baeleus was about to negotiate a run of rice-for-olives with when the war kicked us out of Kakariko."

A flick of the fingers toward a pained-looking fellow in yellow robes: "Count Embree. Guildmaster for the Chosen Sons – the premiere alchemic concern in the Nation. Rumor has it he had considerable investments with the Moon Guild back before the Defection and all but lost his robes in the ensuing debacle. Naturally, he is now an outspoken proponent of zora enlistment in the Royal Legions."

Anton pivoted with gawkily perfect anti-grace, grinning like a jack-o-lantern, and cocktail-gestured deeper into the contingent. He croaked, "And there is the man you need to meet most, I would suspect. Lord Protector Ralis – the governor and provincial leader of the Zora Nation. One doesn't see him outside the borders of his homeland these days – though he traveled often in years past, I'm told. Quite the natural-born and persuasive statesman."

It took a few blinks to blearily pierce the crowd and find than man Anton was pointing at. He was not a tall man, as I had expected him to be. Perhaps I was simply projecting expectations from all the big and upsettingly powerful bastards I had run into in recent months. After King Harkinian, I suppose that my metrics needed to be recalibrated.

Though a few inches shorter than me, the Lord Protector made up for it by exuding an almost palpable sense of solidity. He was wide of shoulders, powerful of hands, and broad of chest. The fins that unfolded from his arms were a sharp gunmetal and mottled with paint-splatter grouplets of black. His steely eyes were heavily lidded, wet, and watchful. Dark bands of ebony ran down his chiseled face. As I watched, he spoke in low and shrouded tones with an unfamiliar Hylian diplomat. Like every other zora I'd glimpsed talking, he seemed to move his lips as little as possible.

I stopped in my tracks, suddenly undone by another wild pitch of a thought. "Why 'Lord Protector' and not 'Lord?' I haven't heard that one before."

Anton responded almost sheepishly: "Ah, yes. It is a tad confusing. See, the way the treaty between the Hylians and zora works is that they swear fealty to the King of Hyrule, and in return the King doesn't interfere with them except in times of crisis. They get to administer their own business within the Nation. Outside their borders, Ralis is called 'Lord Protector,' but in the Nation the zora all call him 'King.'"

"So it's just a way of showing deference outside the Nation?"

"More or less. It also signifies his position as the main defender of the lasting peace between Hylians and zora."

Another King. Another set of protocols to learn. Yay.

Perhaps sensing my indecision, Anton commented, "You need not feel intimidated by the title, old boy. As I said – outside his home borders, Ralis is the same as any head of household in this room. Beyond any doubt a noble and august personage, but no more frightening than, say, my brother."

"Wow, how reassuring!"

"You've not had any problem trading plain words with lords tonight. Why not now?" He raised his glass in what might have been a gesture of reassurance. "Go on then. Introduce yourself. You needn't rely on me for such trivialities," grinned Anton.

Well, if he put it _that _way . . . My head swam as I turned uncertainly. A grape-flavored blurriness.

I sucked down a mad mouthful of wine and then set my goblet down on a nearby table before striding up to meet the zora lord. No need to bumble with it while we made introductions.

As I approached, Ralis turned to two zora men who had been flanking him – standing in a manner that was too informal to actually be informal – and nodded. Though as well-dressed as the other zora, these two had a hard, grim look about them that spoke almost as loudly as the way their hands constantly stole within their robes. At their King's wordless signal, the pair moved off . . . though not far enough that they wouldn't be able to be at his side between blinks.

Buzzed as I was, I got the message. No funny business.

I bowed as crisply as was possible for someone in my state. I mustered every ounce of decorum in my body as I declared, "Lord Protector Ralis – I apologize for my intrusion, but I wanted to introduce myself. I'm, um, Sir Linus Olsen the Link. I was hoping to make your acquaintance."

Ralis listened to me silently, nodding ever-so-slightly as I announced the title that he surely knew full well. He examined me with unconcealed, meat-market curiosity. About him swam an indistinct, almost unnoticeable odor – a briny musk tinged with rosewater. His green-on-aqua robes made a sibilant slithering sound as he changed his footing. As I stood, a series of liquid ripples shimmered across the garment's breadth. Each was silvery wave, like the tiny lines radiated by a pebble falling through the surface of a pond.

Weird.

"Sir Olsen," Ralis eventually said. "It is an honor and a privilege to meet you. All the Zora Nation sends its gratitude for your brave service."

I was again disappointed – this time by the relative normality of the zora's voice. There was something flat and constrained about it – as if he were attempting to speak at only a certain volume and register. Each syllable was as terse as a gavel strike. Other than that, Ralis's words arrived with an unremarkable accent and with the same strained cadence of every other noble I'd met that night.

Extending my hand, I beamed as broadly as I could and said, "The honor's mine, Lord Protector. I've really looked forward learning more about the zora people."

"Oh?" Ralis's dark eyes narrowed. Rather than allowing me to grasp his elbow – the connection point for those delicate-looking fins – Ralis grasped took my with warm, moist fingers. A familiar practice made instantly uncanny. His skin felt eerily like the dolphins I'd once petted in Florida, several lifetimes ago. "I am glad to hear it, Sir Olsen. I hope that you will truly be a friend to the zora."

The Lord Protector returned my smile.

So.

Confession time:

When I was seven years old and my sister was ten, Lira managed to successfully lobby my parents to allow her to babysit me for an afternoon. It was only for a couple of hours and, well, she was very mature for her age, you see. So she claimed. No more than twenty minutes after the taillights of our parents' car had disappeared around the block, Lira bounded into Dad's study and returned with a videotape clutched in one hand. She grinned demonically and thrust the videocassette box in my face.

"We," my sister announced triumphantly, "are going to watch _this_."

God damn her to hell. The movie was _Jaws_.

Can you imagine what kind of havoc a film of that caliber can do to a child's brain? Nightmares were only the beginning of the fallout from that particular mental explosion. I woke sweating and on the verge of tears for four nights running, pursued through watery voids by sharks and other aquatic predators.

This was followed by The Big One – a full-on, vivid-as-life nightmare of being pulled off of a floating pool cushion and brutally devoured. Even though my pathetic screams woke my parents, I held fast to Lira's vow of silence. This did nothing to alleviate my steady descent into full-bore childhood madness.

All bodies of water became suspect. Even shallow backyard pools took on an aspect of fell menace. Logic had nothing to do with it: Who knew what awful tricks some clever, saw-toothed devil might undertake to get at tender childflesh? Who was to say that it wouldn't be _my _dismembered leg drifting absently to the seafloor? Thus began a lifetime of pool panic attacks, canal chickenings, and beach freak-outs.

I came to distrust even toilets as possible entryways for _carcharodon carcharias_ on the hunt. I could only overmaster my terror of the toilet bowl so many times before more arcane solutions presented themselves. It was only after my mother discovered me sneaking into the backyard bushes to urinate that my obsession – and Lira's ruse – were discovered.

Needless to say, Lira did not babysit me for a long time afterward.

Even today – after all that time and all that's happened to me – I'm still dodgy around large bodies of water. It's not the potent horror of my childhood neurosis, but it's still there. Lurking. Some people are crippled by heights; others quail before snakes; still others are sent running by spiders. Me? I have no problem with any of that shit. Hell, I find spiders and insects kind of fascinating. No – I just have a pure, paranoid, paralyzing terror of sharks.

So.

When Lord Protector Ralis gave me the polite smile of a great white, you can imagine my reaction.

Beyond those usually ironclad gray lips lay teeth as big, sharp, and triangular as any that menaced Chief Brody. They gleamed like white daggers in the lamplight. While I fought the initial urge to shriek like a child (and/or faint while pissing myself), I noticed that the zora lord actually possessed three rows of such teeth – one stacked neatly atop the other.

Three.

Rows.

_Of shark teeth._

It's a wonder – a bona fide fucking Christmas miracle – that I didn't attempt to draw the Master Sword right then and there. Bodyguards be damned: this was some serious fight-or-flight shit.

Though later eyewitness accounts were too polite to enumerate my exact reaction, it must have been immediate and immediately obvious. Ralis's sharp smile faltered. Within moments, the wide and friendly bent of his expression contracted into something far more reserved.

With an air of conciliation, Ralis said, "Ah, I see. I take it you are unused to my people's, ah, _unique_ dentistry."

I felt dizzy and bloodless. My cheekbones buzzed with a numb sensation far beyond alcohol. When I tried fruitlessly to come up with some kind of reply, I found myself distracted by the far-off sounds of groaning furniture and juggled cutlery. Ralis's clothing swirled once more with a psychedelia of starlight ripples.

The depth of concern that ran over the Lord Protector's face was enough to knock me – if only temporarily – out of my horror-trance. Jesus, don't just stand there like you have fucking shell-shock – _salvage this thing_!

"Um – wait – no, no," I blurted. "It's not – I mean – it's –"

Ralis nodded with sad determination. "You need not be contrite, Sir Olsen. As an outerlander, you surely have never had chance to encounter anyone of the Nation." He was back to speaking with in peculiar tight-lipped manner. "Given the specificity of our physical needs, neither have many of Hyrule's great races. For even some as strange as fairies, the zora can be unnerving or outright frightening to behold."

"No, man. I mean, my lord. I mean – uhf! It's okay. It's not that," I said – even while I nodded in subconscious _holy shit _acknowledgment.

The zora lord cocked his head slightly, unused to my outerlander jabbering. Despite his confusion, he continued, "We are quite used to such reactions, Sir Olsen. It is not any trouble for us to act accordingly while we travel among the landlocked."

I shook my head vigorously, feeling all the more like a spooked child. "To be honest, it's kind of a – yeah – I mean that it is a bit intimidating at first, but I'd much rather you be comfortable, my lord. Err. Lord Protector."

Ralis's lips curled at the edges in a gently paternal – and completely toothless – smile. An inscrutable expression. Then he allowed his lips to relax, revealing the "unique dentistry" that had almost caused me to utterly lose my shit. "That would be most kind, Sir Olsen. Are you certain you wish to converse thus?"

"It's cool," I squeaked. "All good. Seriously, relax. Just takes a second to – hahaha! – get used to." I tittered like a mad dowager locked in an attic. "It's allllll gooooood."

He laughed pityingly, and in it was the first hint of a zora accent. A breathy, clicking chirp behind each expulsion. Ralis said, "You have an interesting manner of speech, Sir Olsen. It is quite amusing."

I missed my wine. Please come back, wine. You're always there for me.

"I get that a lot," I sighed.

"I saw you admiring our clothing," the Lord-Protector said nonchalantly. Quite the segue.

"It is, um, quite striking, sir."

A pleased grin. Literally gargling with razor blades.

"We are privileged zora indeed," he explained. "As lords of the Nation, we can afford guild-woven garments. They come enchanted or alchemically treated – some formula known as 'Benthic Tears,' as I understand it. Most of our people must make due with soaked cotton or sackcloth for their landward visits. Thus, zora must either meticulously plan such forays – or keep them as short as possible. This magic makes our lives much simpler."

Still trying to suppress my discomfort, I found myself babbling. "Um – what happens if, uh, zora 'dry out' – or whatever?"

Ralis shrugged. Somehow, he made the gesture look dignified. He said, "We do not die, if that is what you are asking. Not immediately. It is simply very uncomfortable. Death only comes to landlocked zora if they go without water's touch for some days."

"Sounds awful."

"Quite. Your curiosity does you great credit, Sir Olsen. If you truly wish to know my people better, I extend you all the courtesy that I might offer as Lord Protector. You are welcome to visit the Zora Nation at any time. I will personally welcome you as my honored guest."

As much as the hospitality of a noble house of Hyrule sounded enticing, it only took the image of an entire country full of grinning shark-people to make me wonder when I was finally going to wake up. The very thought of it gave me jellied knees.

I found myself saying, "That would be nice. I'd like that," in the same tone that I might finally concede to cleaning up a dead mouse mummified in a trap.

"Splendid!" Ralis enthused. "Perhaps we should make arrangements this evening. Though I must admit that I am uncertain as to –"

He trailed off, twitching slightly, and twisted to the right. Apparently, something he had heard – something that I hadn't even gotten a hint of – had interrupted him. "What is that, now?" Ralis groused.

A voice – quiet and timid and underlain with an almost plaintive trilling – swam out from behind the Lord Protector. Amid the polite din of the ballroom, it was still just short of inaudible.

"Papa, do ya' know when supper'll be served?"

A figure rounded Lord Protector Ralis's stout form. A female zora, turquoise-gray of skin and very slight of frame. She couldn't have stood more than five feet tall. The same sort of ebon striping as Ralis's ran in a boomerang lattice below her eyes.

Those eyes were wide, bright, and constantly blinking. Her expression was one of perpetual astonishment. They were curiously colored – a swirling, honeycomb yellow flecked with bits of dark amber.

About her head was a hijab of a deep kelp green, woven through with abstract flows of quicksilver. The gown she wore shimmered slickly with its enchantment.

She moved in a way that was abrupt and hesitant, darting from foot to foot. Every movement as planned as it seemed painful. A minnow dodging through the shadows of river rocks.

When she caught sight of me for the first time, the zora girl stopped dead in her tracks. She went so still that it seemed that the living, breathing person had been instantly replaced a slick, goggle-eyed. Her eyes swam with stunned terror.

Ralis motioned to the girl, urging her forward. His earlier annoyance had apparently evaporated with her appearance. He whispered, "Come here, child. Fear not. I believe that you will want to meet this man."

For a moment, she continued her determined impression of a lawn ornament. When she finally stepped forth and stood, trembling, beside the Lord Protector, it was with lips parted to give me a glimpse of her perfectly white, knifepoint teeth. Her lamplike eyes never once looked away from me.

The girl brought with her curious scents of horseradish, ginger, and heavy salt. Now that I thought about it, the zora were probably the best-smelling folk in the room at the moment. Well – except for the fairies, who so far as I could tell exuded no odors whatsoever.

"There we are. Yes. Sir Olsen, this is a fine coincidence. Please indulge a proud father for a moment." Ralis smiled expansively, genuinely – horribly. His hand enveloped the girl's shoulder and pulled her close. He said, "This dear pup is my eldest daughter, Ruto."

Yes, yes – of course, I sighed inwardly. Coincidences, convergences – that ineffable sensation that I was traveling down some narrative spinal column. At once reassuring and loathsome.

I chanced a glimpse over my shoulder, searching for Anton and any excuse for an out. The situation was fast teetering over the edge of panic and inevitable humiliation. Alas: Mister Baeleus was chatting up one of the merchant-counts he had mentioned earlier. Turning back, I wondered if he had pushed me toward the Lord Protector simply as a way to fob me off. We might have to have words on the subject.

"Ruto has followed the tales of the Hero of the Triforce with quite some enthusiasm. She is rather taken with your exploits. Is that not correct, dear?" Ralis asked.

The zora girl wrung her hands together and stared at me as if I were a tower on the verge of toppling over. Her lips quivered. The way she stared at me made me wonder if she were merely shy or if she was sizing me up for dinner.

Ruto's silence was such that I almost decided to engage her first. Then she burst out, "S-sir Olsen! It is such an honor to meet you, sir! Hai hai! I am very, very excited to be here tonight and to meet you, sir."

Compared to her father, Ruto's accent was immediately discernible and utterly unrestrained. Glottal clicks trailed the ends of her sentences and that curious, almost disembodied whistle ran through many of her vowels.

Before I could even think of some cordial way to return her greeting, Ruto burst out, "Thank you for meeting with me, sir. Hai, ah – many thanks! This is truly, truly a dream come true! You cannot imagine how happy it makes me to finally meet the Hero, sir – and – I mean . . ." The skin along her delicate cheekbones was darkening, going a deep sort of purple.

She's blushing, I realized. First fish with breasts, and now they can blush. What a world.

"This is just such a wonderful honor!" Ruto gushed. Then, with a click and clack, she mumbled, "I will be quiet now, hai hai. And shall leave you in peace."

Oh God, I thought. I have a fan-girl.

With that, Ruto tried to spin about in an embarrassment-fueled escape. The movement was so clumsy and ill-timed that all she ended up achieving was a chest-first impact with her father's elbow. A look of near-mortal panic set into her features. Her face burned deep purple.

Blame the alcohol if you must, but there were moments during that night when conflicting emotions seemed to short out my brain. As Ruto turned to leave, I was assaulted by two very different notions: A.) That I was incredibly relieved to see this weird shark-girl leaving my vicinity, and B.) I felt sorry for her. If I understood this correctly, she had just met her favorite celebrity, babbled at him near-incomprehensibly, and was now trying to scavenge whatever scraps of her dignity were still intact. I actually felt a jolt of sympathy for the girl. After all, I was meeting _her _as a sort of celebrity – though in a different guise, and over a decade since I had first glimpsed her in all her polygon glory.

Perhaps that was why I spoke up with some bizarre sense of gallantry, all the while wondering why the fuck I was saying the things I was saying.

I smiled, bowed, and declared, "The honor's all mine, Miss Ruto. Glad to meet you. I hope you'll stay and talk – your dad and I were just getting acquainted. I'm very eager to learn more about you and your people."

And yet within me, that familiar inner voice was calling: Dear Jesus man, what are you _doing_? Get out of here! Abort! Eject! Escape while you still have meat on your bones! Do you really want to end the night between these things' teeth?

Liquid courage, man.

Ruto made an effort to steady herself and stared at me as if I had just declared the moon was made of glass. When Ralis nodded knowingly to her, she allowed herself to shuffle back into the circle of conversation.

"Much better," I encouraged.

She spread a grin like a drawer full of steak knives. Nervous still, but at the same time suffused with a raw and palpable elation.

"So, uh," I croaked, "_Ruto_. How do you like the capitol? Pretty boss, huh?"

Ruto produced a high ululation, clicked her teeth together with a ceramic sound, and nodded happily. "Oh, _yes_. Yes, yes. Never have I seen so many people! Hylians and fairies and gorons, too! Today was the first time I have ever seen a goron, Sir Olsen." If it didn't fill me with such revulsion, her grin would have been infectious. "Are they not wonderful? Strange, yes, but wonderful!"

I must have made an incredulous look, because Ruto's face colored lilac. She sputtered, "Apologies, Sir Olsen. Please excuse my – haihai – ignorance of landlocked ways. I so rarely get to visit the lands beyond the Nation. Papa – I mean, ah, Father – hai hai! – is so much better traveled than I. Or, truthfully, any of us. We zora of the Nation tend to stick closely to our homewaters."

Ah – so there it was. Lord Protector Ralis's lack of zora dialect quirks was almost certainly due to extensive diplomatic experience and travel. He was used to keeping things a little muted for the normals out in Hyrule proper. Ruto, however, had little such foreknowledge. Combine that with her almost puppy-like enthusiasm and it was probable that she didn't even have the capacity to cover up her unique accent.

Though Ralis began to say, "No need for apologies, dear . . ." I barreled forward: "Hey, it's all right. I mean, I'd never seen a goron either until about a month ago. Not to mention fairies, moblins, and . . . ya' know. Um. _You_. Zora." I emitted a pitiably nervous laugh.

"There are no zora in the Outer Lands?" Ruto marveled.

"Nope. Pretty, pretty homogenous where I come from," I acknowledged. "So I totally get the weirdness of meeting new people who are unlike anything you've ever seen before."

A breeze wafted in from the promenade, rifling zora robes and chilling the sweat running along the back of my neck. Goosebumps spread in prickling patches across my arms and legs.

"Sir Olsen, I really must, _must _ask:" Ruto changed the subject so abruptly that I had trouble keeping up. Every word and gesture bubbled over with awe and excitement. "Sir Olsen, I hear it told that you battled the _High Ministers _at Kerneghi Gorge. Is that true?"

I took a moment to figure out how to respond. It was hard to refuse her – madly fawning and enthusiastic as a she was – but the subject wasn't exactly a casual one. I decided to be as superficial as humanly possible.

"Sure," I false-laughed. "Though I can't say I fought _all _of them. I only really mixed it up with one of them – the Iron Knuckle. And I can't exactly brag about how well I came out of that one, either." I indicated the sling still mummifying my arm. Even now, the flesh swaddled beneath it felt hot, damp, and perpetually irritated.

Ruto shook her head vehemently. "Oh no no no, Sir Olsen. I doubt that highly! Haihai! The stories of your victory are both well known and very exciting. When I heard that you spat in the eye of Ganon himself, oh!" She pressed fingers to her face and gasped with exultation.

I blinked disbelievingly. "Uh."

She clapped her hands together and beamed beatifically. "It is all very inspiring, Sir Olsen! The news of your coming has made many a zora pup want to join the legions. Were I a man, I would most certainly join the fight at your side!"

"Now, Ruto . . ." said Ralis. He suddenly looked uncomfortable, as if he were having second thoughts about introducing his peppy offspring.

Ruto burbled, "I must know: Is it true that the High Ministers are actually emissaries from the _Dark Lands_? Do they use forbidden magic from the Days of Fire? How many moblin men did you cut down during the battle? Did you really fight side-by-side with the Shiekah Shadow? Who _is _the Shiekah Shadow – if you do not mind me asking? Can you describe the expressions on the faces of the Ministers when you pulled forth the Master Sword? Just what does Ganon look like? What does he _smell _like?! Oh, oh, oh! When you dedicated your victory to your slain comrades, did you mean anyone in particular or _all_ the fallen legionaries of Hyrule?"

Ralis let loose a kettle-whistle sigh. "Ruto, dear pup, you're overwhelming Sir Olsen. One question at a time, please."

"Oh," Ruto murmured. "Ah – hai hai. Many apologies, Sir Olsen. I – ah – I wonder if you could tell me anything about the Shiekah Shadow? Who is he?"

"That is a _very _good question and one whose answer I don't know in the slightest."

"Well then, what is he like? Does he truly dress all in white, the better for his enemies to know his approach? What kind of blade does he use? I believe that it is a traditional Shiekah moonblade but my brother insists that it must be a dueling rapier. Is it really so sharp that it can cut steel? Are his eyes actually as red as the eyes of the moon?"

I waved my hand in some lame gesture for silence. Ruto cut off with a squeak. "Man, you're making my head spin. Gimme a second to think. You've got a bit of a motor mouth, girl."

A dark look passed over Ralis's features, but he didn't get a chance to voice his disapproval. His daughter seemed to take the observation as a compliment.

"Hai hai hai!" Ruto laughed. "You are quite funny, Sir Olsen!"

"Thanks, I try," I mused. "As for Sheik – or the Shiekah Shadow, or whatever – all I can tell you is that the dude saved my life. If he hadn't shown up when he did, I would've been a goner."

"But _what is he like_?" Ruto whined.

"I have no earthly idea. Seriously, I was with him for no more than twenty minutes before I finally passed out. He was the one who got me to one of the field hospitals. After that, I'm not even sure where he ended up."

Well. Maybe; maybe not.

Though she was rather dissatisfied by my answer, Ruto dropped the subject. She asked several more questions of me that cast my performance at Kerneghi Gorge in an increasingly nonsensical light. Just as I was getting ready to blurt out that I had fucked up pretty much all of the battle and the only reason the Protectorate had retreated was to throw the fight, Anton Baeleus strolled leisurely into view behind the Lord Protector. He raised his glass and winked.

Anton's appearance was the sign I'd been waiting for. It bordered on a godsend. I ignored Ruto's last question ("Just how badly does the sign of the Triforce burn in Ganon's presence?") and coughed, "Wow, hey. I'm getting signals from Mister Baeleus over there that the hour groweth late. I think I need to take off."

Ruto's happy expression collapsed with disappointment. "Must you leave, Sir Olsen? There is so much more that I wish to know!" Behind her, Ralis arched what would have been an eyebrow on any human.

"Yeah – sorry. It's been great getting to know you, but I have to split. Don't want to disappoint the hosts and all that." I marshaled my remaining courage and flashed as heartfelt a smile as I could muster. "We can talk again a little later. Maybe after dinner?"

The girl nodded emphatically. "Oh! Yes! Thank you, Sir Olsen!"

"Well then," I said, "I'll leave you two to your own devices. Lord Protector . . . Miss Ruto . . . very fine to meet you."

Nodding seriously, the Lord Protector pronounced, "Likewise, Sir Olsen. We hope that you will come and visit the Zora Nation. We would be delighted to host you in the near future."

"Yes!" Ruto barked. "Please come and stay with us and tell me all about your adventures! That would be ever so wonderful!"

"Awesome," I rasped – all the while contemplating exactly how opposite "wonderful" that would be. "You guys have a good evening."

I left on phantom legs.


	8. 8

**8**

Every step farther away was a sort of relief. When I reached my white-coated guide, he looked me over appraisingly. His smirk was commiserative.

"Are you all right, old chum? You appeared ready to deliver your stomach contents onto the Lord Protector's feet."

"Yeah, agreed. It's just the." I swallowed. "Teeth," I breathed. I finally allowed the pitiable shudder that had been lurking to overtake my body. "Wasn't ready. Holy shit. I have this thing about sharks, man, and –"

Anton closed his eyes and waved away the rest of whatever it was I was about to discharge. "While I appreciate your apprehension, good fellow, perhaps we should discuss it among company less likely to be terminally offended by it?"

Ah – well. It only took a quick glance about to notice that we still stood squarely within the groups of zora. Touché.

We wandered out of the corner of the ballroom and back toward the promenade windows, stopping only to retrieve my errant wine goblet. For the first time since I had engaged in that plunge into zora territory, I got a good look at the rest of the great hall.

While my back had been turned, a great and miraculous transformation had taken place. Where once there had been many disparate islands of appetizers, there now sat several rows of banquet tables. They were richly appointed and covered in gold-edged cloths. Silver utensils flashed and fine porcelain shone like buttermilk beneath the chandelier light.

"Man, I don't know about you but I could use some dinner," I said.

Anton gave a me a sideways grin. He chided, "Why, Sir Olsen. After all this time together, I would have thought you would come to know me better. The supper is but an interruption. I could keep this up all night!"

"Better you than me," I sighed.

Ahead of us, the crowd had begun to flow back toward the center of the room and the explicit promise of the banquet tables. Even aristocrats can work up an appetite – perhaps _especially _aristocrats. This new migration parted momentarily and I caught sight of a welcome form.

A head taller than most, he moved stiffly and without any joy in his step. A whiff of duty permeated the air about him even here, on this night of nights. A gray, ambulatory cliff of squared shoulders and a rocky jaw. Sir Walther Kael navigated the crowd with all the apparent ease of a mammoth in an art gallery.

Using the same amount of careful forethought I had applied to greeting Shad and the Lord Protector, I waved with my goblet. When the legionary knight didn't seem to see me, I called out, "Hey, Walther! Sir Kael!"

Beside me, Anton rolled his eyes and asked, "Another of your supposed 'friends?'"

I didn't respond. Walther looked at me for a moment as if deciding whether to ignore my call and simply disappear (as much as he could) back into the body of the crowd. With an obvious huff, he finally strolled my way. About him swam an uncharacteristic cloud of heavy soap and cheap cologne. He folded his hands behind his back and grumbled, "Is there anything I can help you with, Sir Olsen?"

I shrugged. "Not really. Just wanted to say hello, was all. How're you enjoying the, uh, thing? The shindig? I see you don't have a drink. We can definitely hook you up with one. The wine here is pretty, pretty impressive."

With practiced impassivity, Kael eyed me, then Anton. His winding canyon of a facial scar bunched with concern. Anton returned the knight's look with a wry little smile, as if this whole meeting was quite the absurd lark.

"I am fine, Sir Olsen," Walther said slowly and deliberately. His affected Hylium accent felt stiff as steel. "The banquet treats me well, so far. It was an honor simply to be invited."

"Like there was any doubt," I laughed. "Which reminds me – it was a, um, one _hell _of an honor for you to be in the ceremony today. Was really glad you agreed to that."

I was feeling increasingly foolish. Did I really want to be so loaded in front of the man who might well soon be my superior officer? In a feeble attempt to quell my sudden embarrassment, I glanced at Anton, nodded, and sputtered, "Ah, hey. Anton, man. This is a switch – I get to introduce you to somebody rather than, y'know, other way around."

I shifted position and spread my arm between them.

"Walther, this is Anton Baeleus – the General's brother and pretty cool dude if I must opine. Anton, this is Sir Walther Kael. Also a cool dude."

The two men sized one another up for a moment, but then exchanged a formal elbow-shake and half-muttered greetings.

"Honor to meet you, Mister Baeleus."

"Likewise, Sir Kael."

Beyond the proximity of Anton and Walther's painfully stilted meeting, I glimpsed something in the resurgent crowd that truly pulled my attention: Tash Lon's chubby, ebullient form, flanked by two heads of brilliant red hair. The whole present Lon clan, out and ready for supper. I suddenly regretted calling to Walther – if I wanted to get in some more time with the Lons, I would have to blow him off.

"So . . ." I heard Anton drawl uncertainly.

I looked around to see him gazing at me, then at Walther, then back to me. For the first time that evening, he looked lost.

I was struck by the moment and the opportunity inherent in it. As much as I had enjoyed Anton's company and his guidance, I suspected that the portion of the evening that I needed him for was about to end. It might be the most ungainly of times to be rid of him, but at that moment I felt that it was necessary.

I blurted, "Hey – guys – I'm sorry to do this to both of you, but I think I actually need to run and catch up with some folk."

Anton straightened and regained a bit of his debonair composure. "Then I shall accompany you!" he declared.

I shook my head. When I glanced at Kael, his expression indicated that he seemed to be experiencing a particularly painful bout of gas. "Sorry, but no. It's been real, but I can do this on my own. No introductions necessary."

If he was hurt or put out by the brusque refusal, Anton made no indication. He simply nodded, tasted his drink, and said, "Ah, well. It was certainly fun while it lasted, was it not?"

I softened, chuckling wearily. "It was. Anton, man – thank you for your help tonight. I'm sure I would've stood around like an idiot if you hadn't been there to give me pointers."

"Pish-posh, Sir Olsen. You're a lively chap – no doubt you would have found your own courage had I not so rudely hijacked you," Anton said.

I turned to Walther and shrugged as best I could. "Sorry I couldn't stay and talk. Catch up later?"

The knight nodded sullenly. "Think nothing of it, Sir Olsen. We shall converse when there is time."

I attempted a somewhat lame conciliatory goodbye. "Both of you have a good night. I'm sure we'll see each other again soon."

Then I shouldered between them, out into the mill and bustle of the party. A willing shucking-off of life preservers.

"So," I heard Anton say brightly, "you're with the First Legion, then?"

"Aye," Sir Kael answered – more than a little despondently.

I was out on my own again, weaving my way into the crowd, hard on the hunt for anyone with red hair or the bald egg of a head. The two men's awkward voices slipped away in the waves of babble.

As it turned out, I didn't have time to catch up to the Lons after all. Just seconds after I left Walther and Anton behind, there resounded throughout the ballroom a deep and lugubrious sound. It undulated among the pillars and resonated like a proclamation against the vaulted ribs of the ceiling. A basso, brassy gonging.

Dinner was served.

The mood of the party shifted almost instantaneously. Noblewomen uttered delighted exclamations. A few partygoers clapped politely, as if they had just seen someone sink a putt. The drum-and-guitar music that had given the occasion its strange, ethereal heartbeat stopped. A new wave of servants appeared from the sides of the room, spreading out like diligent worker ants to ferry each guest to the appropriate table and the appropriate seat therein.

These valets and stewards were quite insistent. Before I had even had a chance to formulate a plan to find the Lons – much less find them – a sterilely pleasant servant glided up to me and pronounced that I was to follow him to my place at the high table. Being a little drunk and very unwilling to rock the boat at that moment, I simply nodded and followed the man to my culinary destiny.

Not that I was paying the best attention, but I was still surprised when I suddenly found Tash Lon at my side, blinking bemusedly. If the bright scarlet of his cheeks and the stiff-backed serving-man at his side meant anything, it was that he was largely in the same situation that I was.

"Tash!" I blurted.

"Linus! Lad!" he responded in kind.

I went in for an elbow-shake, realized that my only hand was occupied, and opted for an attempt at an clunky embrace. Tash did most of the work. To the fore, our escorts looked on with expressions of impatient dissatisfaction.

Tash rumbled, "Well met, lad. Well met!"

"Hell yeah we are," I chuckled. "Really good to see you, man."

The near-exasperated attendants whispered words of encouragement and momentum. Our attempt at a conversation now had legs.

"Enjoyin' yourself?" Tash asked.

"Definitely. Sort of. Kind of. Lotta folk seem determined to dislike me."

"Feh! Like Pa always said, you're not really livin' if everyone ends up likin' ya'. Means you ain't made any real decisions, nor had any real opinions. No, lad – you got plenty o' friends here. Mark me."

"That's what everyone keeps saying, but . . ."

Tash shrugged. "Courage, lad. It ain't easy bein' a straight-talkin' man in a place like this."

"True enough," I sighed. "At the same time, I'm meeting pretty some interesting people."

A dark look passed over Tash's features. He quaffed heartily from the mug in his hand and then sucked the foam from his mustache with his bottom lip. "Aye," he said. "Seen ya' with a few interestin' fellows about the room. That Madame Mim lady, for instance." His eyes flitted to me with open concern. "And Anton Baeleus."

We suddenly found ourselves at the outer edge of the great dining tables. Our handlers stopped, arms folded and faces twitching.

I said, "Sure. Baeleus showed me around. Introduced me to the people who weren't keen on seeking me out."

Tash ponderously said, "You'd best watch out for that Anton feller, lad. They say he's a schemer and a double-dealer. Slippery as an octorock and smart as a sage. Also," a strange look of impacted consternation crossed his face, "errr. Well. I don't take kindly to rumor-mongerin' . . . but I hear it that he _fancies _lads. If ya' can even imagine it."

"You don't say." It took effort not to roll my eyes.

At the same time, a icy prickle pierced the cloud of alcohol swirling about my skull. After all, Anton _was _a Baeleus. He had charmed his way to my side in minutes with reassurances that he didn't share his brother's intense loathing for me. What if it was all a ruse to get close? All the better to stick a knife – metaphorical or not – between my ribs.

No. Fuck. This was no way to think. I had few enough friends here in Hyrule already. There was no reason – no hard evidence – to reject Anton Baeleus's amicable overtures. Why complicate matters by being cagier than I already had been?

But what if it _was _all a set-up? Some grand Baeleus family scheme to undo the Hero standing in the way of the General's ambitions?

First Navi and now this. As if I didn't have enough reasons to be fucking paranoid.

Goddammit, I thought. _Stop_. You're sitting down to dinner in what is easily the swankiest party you've ever attended in the entirety of your miserable life, and all you can think of is how much everyone secretly hates you. This thing is more or less being held _in your honor_. Cheer the fuck up!

I didn't have time to continue debating myself. Even as Tash prepared to ask me some follow-up question, our attendants swept in like mother cats and pressed us forward to the dining tables. Tash managed a clipped, "Jaw with ya' after the meal, lad!" before we were separated. I was led to the centermost banquet table and ushered into a high-backed chair.

For all the supposed urgency that the valets had displayed in rushing Tash and I to our seats, it didn't look like anyone else was in much of a hurry. Noble guests lingered at the table edges, sipping drinks and chatting with one another as if the entire preceding cocktail hour(s) had only been a gelatinous fever dream. Some issued hushed orders to personal servants and retainers, which brought to mind my own (supposed) handmaiden.

I pulled myself about, looking for any indication of Zelda's towering figure. I thought that I might have seen the cowl of her cloak bob through the thinning crowd. No, wait – the cowl I had seen was deep crimson rather than violet. Something about the color gave me an honest and uncertain pause. Something about . . .

Ah, but there she was: Zelda slid from the herd of servants and nobles as they took their seats. She stepped very close to my seat, having to lean down in order to properly speak with me.

"Do you require anything before the dishes arrive, Sir Olsen?"

"You could top me off," I said, indicating my diminished libations.

"More wine, Sir Olsen?" Zelda's voice was ingratiating but her eyes were incredulous. She pressed close and whispered in my ear, "You are becoming quite drunk."

"So?" I replied. "It's a celebration. _Everyone _is getting their drink on."

"If you injure yourself again tonight, I will refuse to play nurse-maid to you this time." Zelda smiled acidly.

"I didn't injure myself!" I crowed indignantly, gesturing toward her with my goblet. "A crazy bitch with a giant axe did this to me!"

Noble eyes darted my way, suddenly nervous. Ah. Best turn down the volume a bit. I blinked and swallowed, sourly cotton-mouthed, and concentrated as hard as I could on keeping my tone low and even. "Okay," I muttered, "maybe I could stand to slow it down a bit. At the same time, a refill would be nice. I promise this'll be the only one through the meal."

Zelda sighed and said, "It matters not, so long as you hold it well. I shall procure wine and . . . and some water. Plenty of water." She reached out and swept something from my the fabric of my sling. A crumb or morsel that had been sitting there for only God knew how long. I hoped that no one else gathering for supper had seen the fussily maternal gesture.

"There is a brief meal scheduled for personal maids and valets," Zelda continued nonchalantly. "Certainly nothing compared to the repast you will soon enjoy, but . . ." She eyed me warily. "To be quite frank, Sir Olsen, I am close to famished. Can I trust you to pass supper without my aid?" For a brief moment, genuine worry washed over her features. One of those few visible currents that rose from the cold, still pond of her face.

Suddenly, despite my knighthood – despite all the accolades – despite the toasts and kind words and fine clothing and deference paid – I felt like a roaring fuck-up. Part of me knew that Zelda was overreacting, but quite a few others flooded with shame at having even gotten to this point.

"Th-that's cool," I stuttered. I was rather glad that no one had yet taken their place at the table on either side of me. My embarrassment was acute enough without an audience. "Go on. I don't doubt that you're hungry. Now that I think about it, you've been working your ass off all day."

An incredulous pump of one eyebrow.

"In fact," I said, jamming my hand into my suit jacket, "here's your bell. That way I can't even bother you on accident. Haha." As if in confirmation that this was indeed a possibility, the tiny bell clinked awkwardly in my palm. A muffled answer clicked from one of the mysterious folds of Zelda's cloak.

"That won't be necessary, Sir Olsen."

"Just take it," I said, thrusting it into her upturned fingers. "You can give it back if you want after. You deserve some time off from, from. Um. Me. From me."

"Well enough, Sir Olsen." Zelda pocketed the bell. "Enjoy your meal. Your wine shall arrive shortly. I am certain that any needs that may arise can be accommodated by the servants." With that, she slinked away with body language that was still vaguely uncomfortable.

As if he had been waiting for just that moment, the blunt-bodied form of Lord Eldin shimmied into the seat to my right. "Sir Olsen," he chuffed, giving me a perfunctory raise of his goblet. A stout young woman with wary eyes sat next to him. Her hair was pulled back in a prim brunette bun, tied with a green ribbon. The steward of Eldin Province introduced her as his daughter, Faun. Soon enough, the reedy Minister Tao – he who had almost had a panic attack after the announcement of the Protectorate offensive – took the chair to my left.

King Daphnes Harkinian arrived in our midst just moments after the wine commissioned by Zelda. He settled his considerable body into the chair at the head of the table. His cheeks burned bright red below his beard and he announced the commencement of the meal with a gusto that suggested that he himself had imbibed more than a few glasses of wine. At his go-ahead, the feasting officially began. Yet another swarm of servants buzzed from behind pillars and through open doors. Silver trays and immaculate porcelain crockery poised in their able hands.

As the dishes found their way to each of the long tables, another wave of polite talk fanned out among the banquet guests. Again, I felt as if I were a rocky shoal jutting from that wave – inundated by but also forbidden from being a part of it.

For his part, Tao actually tried to engage me in conversation. However, the questions he asked were either on subjects I was completely ignorant of or so pointedly awkward that I started to half-believe that the man was subtly mocking me.

For instance, shortly after reintroducing himself, the Minister blithely asked, "Tell me, Sir Olsen – do you think the Folman model of the capitol's defense is sound? Or do you – regardless of personal politics – prefer the Baeleus plan?"

"Uh," I said, tongue dry and throat itching, "the, um, first one. Definitely."

As the meal progressed, his talking points took on an almost David Lynch level of absurdity. When I let slip that I had stayed in Midtown before arriving at the Imperial Palace: "Such a dreary, power-haunted place, lower Midtown. All those manses crowding up against one another. Better to travel far from the Quee estates than to live in dread of falling bricks and all those . . . crumbling spires."

Fearing that the man was speaking in some sort of code, I gave no reply. I simply shut up and ate. It seemed like the most prudent action at the time. After a period of eliciting nothing more than grunts of acknowledgment from me, Minister Tao turned his flapping gums to more active participants.

So, I spent much of a dinner held in my name in silence. Focusing on the food helped, though only to a point. The problem with being intoxicated during a fine meal is that even if you enjoy it, you don't really _enjoy _it. The slippery time-flow and dulled senses of inebriation leave one tasting without tasting, savoring without savoring. The entire meal blurred together so that it felt as if it had neither form nor exact sequence.

The second dish that was slid before me (or was it the third?) was a bowel full of shredded greens and cabbage, absolutely swimming in a pale green sauce. Thinking it a kind of salad, I dug in without hesitation. No more than ten seconds passed before my hand flailed out for a tall mug of water.

A memory, unmeant and unannounced, came in a sideswipe:

High school. Sophomore year. The semester I shared a lunch period with Eric Chung. The muffled cacophony of the Pine Union common area. Long folding tables with attached benches, smelling of watered-down bleach and the ghost of spoiled milk. Eric cracking the lid of a Tupperware dish, releasing a sour-spicy scent unlike any I'd ever encountered. Inside waited a glistening mess of what appeared to be reddish sauerkraut.

"Kimchi," Eric explained in that droll, must-I-bear-this-burden voice of his. "This is the real shit. Maybe the one advantage to living traditional."

He had lent me an experimental forkful of the stuff. I came away from the experience gasping. Eric's mom made it hot, yo.

Hanging out with Eric had fostered my appreciation for both pot and Korean food. When he had procured his first car – a venerable gray Oldsmobile – we would drive into K-Town and visit some of the more reasonably priced barbecue joints. It became a weekend routine to hit up the district – springing for Park's when our wallets felt fat enough – and later smoking cheap dope from apples and soda cans. He would occasionally talk our way into various clubs and back rooms choked with cigarette smoke, his rough Korean smoothing our way into a couple of beers or a bit of extra grass. The end result didn't matter to Eric – he just loved the adrenal thrill of quietly breaking the law and working the system.

Man. Eric Chung. Probably my best friend throughout high school, outside of Jenny Foster. More so than Stuart Rodriguez, even. I hadn't seen the man in over a year. Eric had ended up becoming a brilliant aerospace engineer – largely to defy his parents' wishes that he become a doctor or lawyer. After a stint at Caltech, he had moved to Denver to take a position designing satellite guidance systems or some such nonsense. As of the last time I had talked to him, he was fulfilling his passion for skullduggery by secretly contributing to Colorado's growing marijuana legalization movement. Some people's rebellions are different than others.

All of this was ramrodded into my skull by the pungent, peppery kick of the "salad" that I had so enthusiastically shoveled down my throat. Granted, it didn't have quite the palate-cleansing quality of good kimchi; I wouldn't want to layer it over rice and seared pork any time soon. Nonetheless, I was delighted to discover a rough equivalent here in Hyrule. This tart, burning bastard of a slaw summoned warm memories. A welcome evocation.

More courses arrived and departed with a quickness.

A spicy red stew full of octorock, gohma, and some oily, unidentifiable white fish.

Long slices of a pinkish mushroom, drenched in a butter sauce. Fortunately, no one made a fuss of the plate being cleared while still clearly untouched.

Roast cucco encrusted with herbs and stuffed unto bursting with apples, nuts, and minced ginger.

A medley of onions and odd, unidentifiable root vegetables chopped, marinated, and served in the hollow of a fragrant purple gourd.

Cuts of beef so tender I could damn near slice them with the dual tines of my fork.

As sauced and intent on devouring every morsel placed before me as I was, I still had the wherewithal to pick out the small tableaus playing out across the ballroom.

Far down the head table, Lord Protector Ralis and other members of the zora contingent ate with a practiced, agonizing delicacy. They held napkins to their faces with each deliberate bite. Ever wary of offending Hylian sensibilities, apparently. I silently thanked them for their collective neurosis.

I noticed – as if emerging from a particularly clinging dream – that Prime Minister Rauru al-Ramarji was perched to the right of the King. Strangely enough, it was the first time I had seen the Minister that evening. Had he been at the banquet all along, hidden from the winding avenues I had trod? Or had Rauru just recently slipped in, eager to avoid banal noble conversation but loathe to pass up a royal supper?

As ever, the man's presence was slightly unnerving. That way his silver eyes took in anything and everything, rarely blinking. The precise, almost mechanical movements of his knife and fork.

At some point, a pair of moths with luminous green and gray wings had infiltrated the ballroom, no doubt via the open promenade doors. They looped and fluttered about the chandelier above the head table.

None of the three Lons anywhere near me. Though I craned my neck and contorted my shoulders in an effort to look for them, I never did figure out where Tash, Malora, and Cremia were stationed during the meal.

Dessert, as it turned out, was of a far less regimented nature than the ironclad delineations of the other courses. Maids wheeled out little silver carts from which wafted warm, sugary scents. Roving convoys of cakes and confectionary. All about me, the reserved conversations and outright dinnertime silence of the partygoers was melting back into something more genial, casual, carefree.

When one of the dessert-bearers stopped beside me – a nervous smile playing about her thin lips – I selected a piece of greenish torte that still exuded curls of fruit-scented steam. It tasted extraordinary – a sour-sweet, gingery, fig-tinged flavor. For some absurd reason, it brought sex to mind. Drunk logic. When the torte's serving platter was pressed toward me once more, I declined. It wasn't the sort of thing you eat more than one slice of.

Another sounding of the unseen gong signaled that the fine dining portion of the evening was at an end. One crack platoon of servants cleared the tables and moved them from the center of the ballroom; another set about pouring cups of tea and digestif liqueur among the gorged guests. Once more, the hall was transformed.

I was borne thoughtlessly through the restructuring crowd. How strange the discovery that my wine goblet had been somehow exchanged for a colorful glass of alcohol that I could not possibly identify. Points of reference continued to close up, to shrink, to pull in so that it seemed I could only focus on the five-to-ten feet in front of me. Faces slipped in and out of my vision, pupils darting with curiosity and apprehension. Each movement of my head taking on a kaleidoscopic quality.

Haha. Shit.

It was all the hooch. Defffffffinitely gone to my head. Boy howdy.

The taste of the after-dinner liquor was like oversweet blueberries. Sugar-infused, gooey. My tongue twitched at its touch, throat luxuriating in its velvet burn. The fingers curled about the glass were sticky with old wine.

Wine? Okay. Sounds like a plan, sir. Yes.

I tottered through the milling aristocrats and accosted the nearest servant I could find for some more of that ol' adult-strength grape juice. It was only when a new goblet had been gingerly inserted into my good hand that I considered that this might be a mistake.

Something about the realization sent a (slightly) sobering shiver through my extremities. Hadn't I been trying not to get too fucked up tonight? Wasn't I supposed to be on my best behavior?

As I cast about worriedly, once more in the grip of the anxious need to maintain appearances, there was a call and cry out in the booze-distorted reaches of the ballroom. The flow of the crowd turned, and I turned with it. My body contorted as I as I worked my way through the morass. Within seconds, I came to a point where the crowd stopped, as if at an invisible line of scrimmage. Beyond was a region that none seemed to dare enter.

The last of the tables had been cleared from the central section of the hall. A new space opened up, blonde hardwood gleaming.

A gaggle of musicians made its way out of a human corridor to my right. Though I didn't see him, the sure voice of a herald called out, "Lords and ladies – introducing Sir Hieronymus Kent."

I can't say that I was much surprised to discover that Sir Hieronymus was actually the same weathered old man who had acted like nothing so much as a street busker out in the palace's gardens. He had changed clothes since – now sporting a suit that looked a bit ragged for someone who was apparently a knight of the Legions – but still lugged the tall not-quite-sitar-not-quite-guitar he had been strumming to the beat of two amateur drummers. Now, he came accompanied by two men lugging those same psuedo-bongos (alas, their attendant young, punkish players were nowhere to be seen), one androgynous goron carrying what appeared to be a fistful of tubular bells, a wiry young woman equipped with a fiddle, and a final gentleman bearing an instrument that reminded me of something from back home that I couldn't quite put my finger on. A lute? Tabla? Whatever.

The musicians set up with a deft efficiency at the far end of the cleared space. They slid into languid poses on the floor. Sir Hieronymus brushed back dry spindles of cream-colored hair and stood fully.

I saw in the barest corner of my eye that King Daphnes and Princess Ilia had also slipped to the front of the crowd, their conspicuously un-conspicuous retainers fanning about them.

Sir Hieronymus cleared his throat, crossed his hands, and lifted up his voice. He spoke with an unfamiliar, rolling accent. It sounded somewhere between the brogue employed by the Baeleus brothers and the clipped staccato of Sir Walther's Vale dialect.

"Lords n' ladies. Counts n' countesses. Brave brothers o' the Legions." To these scattered figures, his fist rose in a salute accompanied by a breath of utter quiet. "Princess. Yer Majesty." His flinty eyes found mine, and a swashbuckler's grin grew over teeth like ancient ivory. "An' the Hero. Sir Olsen. Tis an honor to play for ye'all tonight, of all nights. Come, ye'all. Come an' join our dance."

He too folded his legs and took to the floor. His fingers skittered probingly over his instrument. The other members of the band tensed, frowning. The old man beamed, closed his eyes, and began.

It was not what I was expecting.


	9. 9

**9**

To this day I'm not exactly certain what it was that I _had_ expected. Despite ample evidence that I should never again assume _anything _about Hyrule, I continued to guess fruitlessly. Nonetheless, this was a blank.

Whatever it was, I didn't anticipate the sudden burst of mad strumming that Sir Hieronymus laid down. Nor the answering call of furious drums, executed in perfect time to the strings. Nor the fiddle's raucous wail some seconds later.

"Ho!" Sir Hieronymus shouted. "Ho, ye! Come an' join us! JOIN THE DANCE!"

A dozen men and women answered the call happily, fully, vocally. They careened onto the cleared dance floor with whoops and cries I would have associated with a Saturday-night honky-tonk more than a fete at the Imperial Palace of Hyrule. There came a clatter of boots and expensive shoes upon the tiles. A sea-foam hiss of rustling skirts.

At first, I couldn't make heads or tails of the dance – largely because there was none. Those first moments were all improvisation. Spinning, sashaying, hand-clasping, delighted jigs. Warm-ups as the first participants took to their marks, forming into a loose and ever-expanding circle.

It turned out the there was indeed a formal framework to it all – tentative at first, but then with more solid boundaries. Pairs of partners would take turns in the center of the idling group, all of whom bounced on their heels and took back-and-forth steps in a kind of ritualized expression of anticipation. Those couples "in the spotlight" twirled and stepped and slid for approximately thirty seconds, touching palm-to-palm as they moved. These flourishes started hesitantly as each pair acclimated, then gained an increasing momentum.

The first to take the central floor were a Shiekah couple barely out of their teens – he of copper eyes, she of radiant scarlet. He wore a veve of lines that coiled across his cheek like a mass of climbing ivy; her tanned features were spotless. Their dance was stiff and awkward and shuffling. Yet, they laughed and grinned ecstatically as the crowd clapped about them.

There was something elementally appealing about the spectacle. I pondered its efficacy among the after-dinner set. Perhaps this was the inevitable result of all the booze that had flowed through the party. But why wasn't everyone draped across chairs with all the food that had just gone around?

I suppose that I was example enough to the contrary. At supper's close, I had found that the thought of more food was unpleasant – but not so much that I wanted to curl up under the table and take a nap. I had never been the sort to relax in a recliner after, say, Thanksgiving dinner. That was my paternal grandfather's trick, descending into a cauldron of belly-shaking snores. Rather, after a period of a lethargy, Dad, Lira, and I would take to the outdoors for an oftentimes frosty session of tossing about the ol' pigskin. If a football wasn't available – and I think that happened all of twice in the entire twenty years I spent with Dad – we'd play tag through piles of leaves or beneath the spans of backyard palms.

Yeah. I could go for a bit of movement. Might be fun.

The only problem was: it had gotten _so goddamn fast_. In my sloshy state, it felt like there was no way in hell that I could keep up with it all. Did the Hero of the Triforce really need to prove himself a drunk and an idiot tonight?

Someone was suddenly standing very close. I could feel them just barely avoiding my right elbow. Expecting another wraithlike visitation from Zelda, it wasn't until I glimpsed a limb covered in crisp white that I realized I was standing next to Anton Baeleus.

"Ah. Hey," I greeted him.

He nodded and sipped from a dew-beaded glass. "Fine meal, if I do say so myself."

"Sure." Then, less grudgingly, "Okay – it was fucking amazing. Gotta admit."

"Well, perhaps not _that_ fine, old chap," Anton chuckled.

I gestured weakly toward the circle of dancers. "How in _hell _am I supposed to learn this dance? I'm going to look like an asshole out there."

"Don't look to me," Anton smiled. "I am so intoxicated that I can hardly stand."

"Really?"

"Oh, indubitably, old chap. Been imbibing since three bells this afternoon. Two, perhaps. It's all a bit fuzzy."

"You . . . certainly maintain well."

"We all have our skills, dear boy."

A brief moment of contemplation, each of us watching the current dancers – an elderly couple, surprisingly nimble despite their age.

Anton intoned, "You know, it doesn't look all that hard to me, old chum."

"I only have one arm, dammit!" I growled.

"Mm'yes."

"One arm!"

"Come now, Sir Olsen. Come now."

Amid the circle, a flash of garnet – then a whirl of paprika. A white and blue gown beside one of canary yellow. Malora and Cremia Lon appeared, borne along by the march of the outer circle.

"Oh, God," I groaned. "I told her that I would dance with her. What the shit am I gonna do?"

"Sir Olsen – Linus? If I might be so bold?"

"You know damn well you will be, even if I say no."

"True enough." Anton paused, then said, "What do you have to lose?"

"Her respect, for one."

"Which, I might venture," Anton purred, raising his eyebrows, "you might also forfeit it if you do nothing."

For an inebriate, his reasoning was relatively sound. Unless I ran and hid behind one of the ballroom's pillars – something sure to get me noticed anyway – Malora would see me. And even if I tried to beg off by citing my arm, it would probably hurt her feelings. Nothing sucks like disappointment.

I frowned deeply.

Oh, fuck it. Time to give this thing the old college try.

I shoved my drink toward Anton and chuffed, "Cover my back, Sundance. I'm going in." Before he could muster any kind of response, I was off and walking, aimed toward the Lon siblings.

Cremia was the first to notice my approach. As she spied me and gleaned my purpose, her movement within the circle slowed. She poked her sister in the side and let loose a nervous titter.

"It's _him_," she clearly mouthed.

Malora whipped about, blinking wildly. Sandaled feet bore her from the front of the circle, beyond its pull. A moment later, Cremia arrived at her sister's heels, nervousness and excitement at war on her face. The two girls curtsied with theatrical, somewhat mocking deference.

Adopting a near-farcical Hylium accent, Malora said, "Cremia, I wish to introduce Sir Linus Olsen the Link." She looked to me with an expression that was intended to be formal and knowing, but ended up looking slightly absurd. "Sir Olsen, this is my younger sister, Cremia Lon."

"Malora. C'mon. It's me. I know what you're trying to do, but you can call me Linus in front of your sister."

I strode forward, mindlessly closing the distance. "Cremia. Really great to finally meet ya'," I said, leaning forward to give her the standard Friend's Sister Hug – full-on, but only momentary. Cremia recoiled, eyes narrowing as she tried to figure out what I was trying to do.

Disengaging, I sputtered, "Uh, wow – sorry. Didn't mean for that to get awkward. Different customs back home and all that. Heh."

I extended my hand. Cremia seemed to contemplate the situation for a moment, then slowly brought up her own arm. A quick, far-lighter-than-usual shake of the elbows ensued.

"Charmed," Cremia said.

"Oh, _really_, Sir Olsen," Malora groaned in that too-posh accent. She rolled her eyes with vaudeville exaggeration. "You simply _must _polish your manners."

Oh, great – she's fucking with me. Here was the old impishness, which had always danced behind her eyes. A quality so very different than the completely earnest side I had seen the night after the imbroglio at the Oloro Bathhouse.

Then again, the sheen of strawberry-red across her cheeks might explain her current mood. Looks like we had both drunk a little over our weight class that night.

Cremia was apparently having none of this. "Malora!" she hissed. "Can ya' be _normal _for just one bleedin' night? Of all nights? _Please_?"

I waved my hand between them. "Aw, your sister's great. Lay off 'er. Speaking of which . . ." I grinned and turned to Malora. "May I have this dance, Miss Lon?"

Smooth as goddamn olive oil, Olsen. Give her the ol' Linus charm. You know – that deranged grin, supplemented by attendant scars and wine-rotten breath.

I suddenly felt like a leering old ghoul. Half-wanted to turn and disappear back into the crowd, out a side exit, into the grounds, back to the Guest Wing, and beneath several layers of blankets.

Apparently, the moment catalyzed something entirely different than a sensation of shambling undeath for Malora. She grew an insatiable grin and nodded heartily. Even brighter color flushed high in her face. Beside her, Cremia apparently abandoned all her previous annoyance and made an excited clapping gesture.

Huh.

As Malora quietly came forward and grasped my hand, I wondered how much her sister knew about our relationship. Cremia certainly seemed like quite the little cheerleader for the two of us.

No matter. Here was a woman with whom I was quite taken with, slipping one slim-yet-callused hand into mine. Gently pressing another atop my injured shoulder. Wordlessly, she led me toward the swaying press of the dance circle.

Oh God. The _dancing_. No matter how willingly I followed Malora toward the floor, I suddenly felt as if I were being led to slaughter. At least, that's what the hard pit of dread sunk in my stomach had to say.

And yet:

Beneath a cloak of rosewater perfume, Malora exuded the scent of a hard evening's sweat. A smell that sent me careening back to the nights we had spent together in a decidedly more isolated and naked fashion. A jelly-kneed reverie. I tamped down these thoughts as if stomping out an unwanted campfire. I had no desire for the next day's gossip to be about the Hero's raging erection.

As the circle absorbed us, we ended up between two young couples – sons and daughters of the aristocracy. Within moments, I found myself stepping and swaying in place with the rest of those waiting their turn in the center. I watched as two gorons – one a sand brown hulk, the other small and nearly jet black – assaulted the floor. They spun and stepped and carried on as if filled with helium.

Next, a fat man in a green suit drunkenly oozed onto the floor, his young wife following him out of what seemed pure exasperation. They slumped and stumbled a bit, seemed to find a rhythm, and just when it seemed like we might find out the secret of why the two were together, their session ended.

Well, good. That would stick in people's minds, hopefully. No way I'm worse than that.

"Linus!" Malora said, almost shouting to be heard over the music. "We're next!"

"Wha – " I began. The sentence ended, "– aoof!" as Malora tugged me fully onto the dance floor.

There was no freeze-up. No hesitation whatsoever. The drums bore us forward. The twang of strings propelled our bodies as if we were aloft.

At first, both of us seemed to be moving only to match the other. A slow, quiet swirl of motions to calibrate things – as if we had planned it all beforehand. We moved away – and then scuttled close – and then swayed apart – and then spun closer and –

The pads of our fingers brushed mid-motion. Through the thump and wine-haze flashed a spark like lightning across the horizon. My heart felt like the answering thunder.

After that, we let the music carry us along its ebb and flow. There was nothing quite like it – a rushing, roaring sensation. A fire stoked in the belly, spreading hot and tingling through my trunk and legs.

And then, at some soundless and invisible signal, it was over. Malora's firm grip brought me back to the idling ring of revelers. Firecracker bursts of applause bore us back. I thought we might be returning to Cremia, but Malora guided us to a prime spot in the circle. Readying for another pass?

"Wow," I panted. "That was _tits_."

"Excuse me?" Malora laughed.

I said, "I mean, um. It was fun. I liked it."

She nodded happily. "Aye. Very much so. You're a fine –"

"I do beg your pardon," a lightly accented voice cut in.

I glanced right, and beheld a neatly handsome man somewhere in his early twenties. Dark eyes contrasted sharply with his slicked-back red hair. He wore a damned fine suit, with a blue-green sash draped shoulder to waist.

Who the fuck was this guy?

"May I have the next dance, Lady Lon?" The young man's eyes flicked to me with pained consideration. "Sir Olsen?"

I looked to Malora. To the sweat beading on her forehead and the curls of red already unraveling from her carefully arranged hairdo. For all the crashing intimacy of the moment, I couldn't read the expression in her eyes. Couldn't parse her small, closed, uncertain smile.

Shit. I was far, far too inebriated for _any_ kind of social crossroads. How to play it?

Hoping to look understanding and magnanimous, I said, "If Miss Lon wants to, that'd be fine."

She stared at me, still breathing hard, face impenetrable as a stone sphinx. Malora turned to the gentleman and nodded daintily. "I would be delighted to dance with you next, Sir Seamarch."

Ah, a knight – and a nobleman, to boot. Check out Mister Fancypants.

Malora regarded me with a hint of pity – or perhaps carefully concealed disappointment. She said, "Many thanks to you, Sir Olsen, for that dance. It was lovely." So brittle. So formal.

Now the only question was: just how badly had I fucked up?

"Likewise, Miss Lon," I managed. I returned her curtsy with a tight, shoulder-tingling bow.

Malora took Sir Seamarch's hand, and the two reentered the swaying dance circle. Within moments, the duo slipped into body of the crowd. Even though they were a pair of redheads, it was difficult at best to track their journey, and with a heaving sigh of self-pity I decided to not even try.

I felt as if I had let some great and shining moment slip between my fingers. An emptying, almost ossifying sensation.

Probably time to call it a night.

. . . Oh, come the fuck on. Don't be such a mopey twat. If Sir Seashit could come to this thing stag, why can't you?

Get back in there, man! Go!

So I did. Bodies parted at my approach. Some smiled with star-struck delight; others furrowed their brows and pursed their lips. Nonetheless, the circle welcomed me back.

Quickly back in the swing of the thing. As it turned out, one of the nicer aspects of being (in)famous was that I would apparently never lack for a dance partner. Less than a minute after it became apparent to the revelers that I had re-entered the circle solo, a willowy young woman with dark green eyes melted through the crowd and asked me (if she might be so very bold) if I might join her on the floor. I obliged her. She gave me a name, but it vanished from the vaporous tatters of my mind within moments.

Our dance was different than the one Malora and I had shared, led in lazy arcs by down-tempo fiddle strings. Her limbs were like seagrass in their sinuous motions.

As we exited the central space, making way for another eager couple, I caught sight of Malora and Sir Seamarch swaying amid the mob. Each looked awkward in their own way – she in wine-blush ambivalence and he tight as a watch spring. When Malora looked my way, I executed a wink that, in my state, was probably more of a "wonk." Nonetheless, Malora clearly had to stifle a wild giggle.

The next partner to meet me on the floor was a red-cheeked, middle-aged woman who spun about me like a dervish. More than half again my age, and yet three times as spry. When I bowed to her at the end of our set, it was with laughter on my lips.

I fell back into the fracas. At this point, I was swept up enough in the jovial atmosphere that I let the throng press me along the circle's perimeter. Though I hoped to find Malora again, I gave little thought to my next partner. Despite a gnawing throb in my shoulder and the dryness of my throat and dim coals glowing beneath my kneecaps, I wanted only to keep dancing.

And – oh. Oh. Of course. Who was there, sifting up through the crowd? Her blue-gray skin glistening and lips just barely parted in wonderment, bladed teeth revealed?

There she bobbed: Ruto – daughter of Ralis, Lord Protector of the Zora Nation. The girl who may or may not have been my biggest fan. She stood near the front of the circle, tapping unseen toes to the beat of the music. A vision that inspired equal parts nostalgia and repulsed dread. So, as the movement of the circle drew me close, I did the first thing that came to me:

I reached out my hand.

Ruto's golden eyes drew so wide they looked as if they might burst from her skull.

"M-me, haihai?" she chirped. There was a flabbergasted disbelief in her voice.

I nodded, smiling. I couldn't understand how I could be so eager and afraid at the same time.

With tiny, timid steps Ruto pressed to the edge of the circle. It looked like she wouldn't go through with it – her body language was suddenly shrunken and shy. Then, as if waking from a dream, she decisively shot out her fingers. Her palm was warm and slick; her grip, surprisingly strong.

Hand-in-hand, we took to the floor.

Once she got going, Ruto danced with that un-self-conscious enthusiasm that only a kid can muster. It was all I could do to keep up, and within moments we were moving more madly and with greater abandon than any other moment during the night. The ballroom and all the world became a blur of motion-smeared faces, rainbows of glittering clothing, and streaks of honey-colored light.

I realized that the musicians' instruments had changed up their cadence – playing faster and faster, with ever-greater aplomb to match our own. About us, rich men and women urged us forward with their rhythmic applause.

We spun. We stomped. We twirled.

How the fuck am I doing this with only one functional arm and a bloody sword strapped to my hip? I really have gone insane, haven't I?

Oh, but who gave a flaming shit? Not I, sir; not I.

Nor did Ruto, who laughed her delightfully strange, "Hai-haihaiahai!" with each new sweep and dip the music summoned between us. In her exultant grin were wonder and terror twisted one upon the other. Joy like the explosive corona of madness.

Dancing with a nightmare. If there was a more apt symbol for my time in Hyrule, I wasn't sure what it was.

I had to all but yank Ruto away from the center of the circle once the approving claps gave way to more than a few looks of impatience. Hogging the floor – yes, right, got it. Time to yield the space. The tumult opened before us, letting us out into the less congested ballroom beyond.

It took me a moment to come to grips with how ponderously I was breathing – how soaked my various crevices were with sweat. The pain in my left shoulder seethed like a neglected guard-beast. My toes tingled. My calves ached.

Beside me, Ruto blinked rapidly, hissing exhalations that whistled like the seams of leaky steam pipe. The sounds would have been alarming were it not for the staccato fits of giggling that escaped between them. Fan-girl overload.

It was time for a break – maybe even a return to that goblet I had handed off to Anton before I dove under. I had gone in and then come out alive and intact – and yet still retaining some of my dignity, Nayru be praised. A solid win.

Before I could take my leave, I found my free hand pressed between Ruto's own moist, overheated fingers. She spread a mako grin and spouted, "Thank you, Sir Olsen! Thank you thank you thank you!"

"Hey – what can I say?" I laughed. "Anything for a fan."

The young zora laughed squeakily into one hand and absently adjusted her head-scarf with the other. I'd rarely seen anyone so happy.

"That was fun on a bun," I smiled, "but I gotta go. Kind of a big night!"

I caught a final glimpse of Ruto's ebullient eyes before I set off in search of Anton. It wasn't an extensive search – the man in the white suit lingered where I had left him, chatting idly with a pair of round men who looked just as besotted as he was.

I swung in like a Spitfire, lungs heaving; hair plastered wild with joy-sweat. Eyes no doubt rolling like struck marbles.

Without a word, I snatched my goblet from Anton's hand and took a heavy slug off its sour contents. When I looked back up, the pair that Anton had been speaking with gazed at me like I had arrived by UFO. For his part, Anton's face was devoid of surprise or indignation – just a kind of droll amusement.

He winked and said sotto voce, "You dance fairly well for a man who claims he cannot."

"Aw, don't blow smoke up my ass."

Anton's smile twitched. "Actually, I don't jest. You really did look the part out there. It was . . . well, there was a certain _shine _about you, dear boy."

I shrugged, summoning a gnaw of pain through my left side. "Sure, if you say so." I glanced down at the scabbard still strapped to my side. "It's weird. I didn't even feel the sword. Like it wasn't even there."

One of the portly men, sideburns bristling, rumbled, "Mmm, quite. Quite." There wasn't so much annoyance in his voice as petulance, as if he were a six-year-old wearing a body that was pushing fifty.

I laughed, "You know, you kids look like you're in the middle of something, so – uh – on to the next thing for me. Whatever that is. The night is young. I think."

Anton nodded far too crisply for a man so deep in his cups, and we parted ways once more. I had no idea where I was going. The wine didn't help me think, but it certainly oiled the evening's hinges. I slid across the shining floor as if on rollers.

Outside of the still-boisterous crowd watching and awaiting the dance, the population of the hall had thinned noticeably. Entire noble retinues had apparently taken their leave with the advent of the music. Allergic to such frivolity, perhaps. Now, serving-men and women moved like satellites between widely spaced pairs and trios of conversing guests. If it weren't for the continuing thrum and holler of the dance, one might assume that the banquet was heading quickly for its closing moments.

With the immense room more easily navigable, I didn't wander for long. Within minutes, I found the target that I hadn't even consciously known I was heading for: Zelda al-Imzadi.

She lingered on the very outer edge of the dance circle, motionless and silent, about as much expression on her face as a Moai statue. Ever watchful. She watched me approach without a single hint of emotion.

I waved my goblet in greeting. "Sup!"

Zelda seemed to consider the salutation in full, as if examining an artifact from an alien civilization. "Hello again, Sir Olsen," she ventured. "Are you in need of –?"

"Naw, naw," I chortled. "Just checkin' in on ya'."

"On . . . me."

"Having a good time?"

Zelda's eyes narrowed. God, woman. It's not some verbal trap. Give me some credit, here.

"The evening has been fruitful," Zelda finally said. "I was able to converse with the Crown Princess at length, gauging her mood in my absence. Maid Kiltain seems to be performing admirably – though I never doubted her abilities." She sniffed. "In addition, supper was the finest I have eaten in some months."

"Cool, cool. That's great," I nodded. "You see me dance?"

"Some. It was quite gracious of you to partner with the Lord Protector's daughter. You move quite skillfully for a man who complains of being half-crippled."

"That seems to be a common opinion. I'm as surprised as you are."

I gestured to a Shiekah woman as she twirled slowly over the dance floor. A complex web of veve ink spread across her right cheek. Her sari-like body-wrap was the color of sunflowers. Her eyes were like discs of rose quartz. I said, "So why don't you wear the, uh, wrap thing?"

Zelda shot me a puzzled look. Her eyes darted out to the dancers. She tried to suppress – and finally gave up on doing so – a mighty sigh.

She said, "The issue is a complex one. At its root: having been raised away from orthodox Shiekah society, I prefer traditional Hylian dress. The sun-gown is . . . well. It has its merits, one supposes."

I tried to measure Zelda's expression as she watched the Shiekah spin in time to the pluck of strings. I tried to assign some kind of emotion to it – some sort of wistfulness or melancholy or jealousy or yearning or even dismissal. Instead, there was nothing. Once more, the handmaid's face may as well have been an exquisitely wrought death mask.

I found myself blurting, "You know what? I've never liked dancing as much as I have tonight. Seriously." I drank deep of my remaining wine and nodded decisively. "This really is fun. I could keep going. I wanna keep going."

"Then do so, Sir Olsen. No one will begrudge you."

I glanced at her, feeling a sudden twist in my chest. "You should join me."

A look like cannon-shot fired my way. "Absolutely not."

"C'mon. Dance with me."

"A Legionary Knight dancing with his servant?" Zelda clucked. "How unseemly."

"Aw, don't be that way. You're not my _servant_," I cajoled.

"You may have misinterpreted the nature of our relationship, Sir Olsen."

My heart seemed to clench. Every spot of sweat on my body went cool.

"You know what I mean!" I whispered conspiratorially. "We've gone through a lot together."

This perked a small, inscrutable smile upon Zelda's lips. "Not so much as that seems to imply."

"But, you, I mean – come on! At Kerneghi. You and I, you know. We. _You_ . . ."

God help me, I almost spilled it right there. I had been sliding into it all too quickly, all too easily. How close I came to just outright _accusing _her, right there on the ballroom floor.

"What are you babbling about?" Zelda hissed.

"I . . . I mean . . ." I forced myself to take a deep breath. "Nothing. Don't worry about it. It's nothing."

"If this is anything that I need to know, Sir Olsen – anything that might jeopardize your mission or the realm – _tell me_," she said quietly, hotly.

"Geez. Don't be angry. I was just busting balls. Ovaries. Whatever."

She muttered, "I am not angry, Sir Olsen. You can be assured of that."

"Bullshit. You're mad."

Zelda threw me a glance sharp as a dagger. "You are incorrect, Sir Olsen. You have never seen me angry. Vexed and frustrated? Aye. But never have you or will you see me angry. Ever."

The knifepoint directness of her gaze persuaded me to drop the issue. Jesus – what was _that _about?

"Now. Are you certain you still want to remain here? As I said earlier, you have become quite intoxicated. No one would begrudge your exit at this point in the evening. Why, many of the high lords have already slipped out."

"Yeah, but they're not the 'guest of honor.' Or whatever."

It appeared to take all of Zelda's strength to suppress a shudder of irritation. "However . . ."

"I'm stayin'," I said.

"As you wish," Zelda acquiesced. She sounded genuinely morose.

I took a long huff of the thick, warmish air of the ballroom. Mixed scents of spilled liquor, blooming body odor, and old food vapors. An oppressive sensation.

I suddenly coughed, "Heck with it. I'm gonna go get some air. You, uh – hold that pose." Without a further word of instruction, I pivoted and headed for the tall windows that led to the garden veranda. With the vast bulk of the partiers engaged at the dance, only a few gazes followed me with cautious curiosity. I slipped beneath the shade of raised curtains.

I found myself alone on the veranda. Not even a single other partygoer lingered there. The night extended cool hands across my face and neck. I turned right and followed the stone railing a few yards, focusing alternately at the bright alchemic lamps about the grounds and the shady green of the lawn below. My bootfalls echoed loudly in the semi-dark. Across the gardens, I glimpsed undulating lines of paper lanterns like prismatic willow-the-wisps. I stopped and glanced back over my shoulder.

The light falling through the windows was the color of apricots. The sort of hue one might see sifting down the trees on an autumn afternoon in Minnesota. From here, the banquet still looked to be in full swing. Charcoal-sketch people swayed and chatted animatedly.

I draped myself over the railing, free arm dangling. My goblet swung like a pendulum. On another plane of reality, my left shoulder ached grumpily. "Fuck, I'm drunk," I muttered.

The night was busy with sound and smell. The continued manic lurch of the music – muffled now, as if a recording replayed. Heavy spice of damp branches. Cool air like a palate cleanser. Outside the courtyard, a man was laughing. There was a cheer so quiet it could have come from a mouse.

I closed my eyes and breathed it all in like a tonic.

"Nice party."

My eyelids snapped open. They felt thin as rice paper.

In my peripheral vision, there was red. I heard the whisper of fine silver chain. There were no footsteps. No warning but what was wanted.

"I'd say you've earned this, Hero."

That voice. Husky, sultry, lupine. The kind of voice that might belong to a film noir fatale, trench coat rumpled and cigarette dangling from her lips.

A voice from my dreams.

My body went limp, as if it had just been electrocuted. The goblet disappeared into damp darkness. There was a thump and a clatter as it struck grass and rolled across unseen paving stones. It was only after conquering a gibbering wall of terror that I was able to move my head.

No more than four or five feet away stood a woman, faceless beneath the hood of a scarlet cloak. Below, she wore a gown of startlingly deep crimson – descending in layers that rippled together like a cascade of blood. A network of glittering chains and pendants covered the dress's bodice. The garment was sleeveless – all the better to accentuate the woman's alarmingly sculpted, darkly colored arms. Immense, agile hands were held crossed at her waistline, covered in gloves so red that they appeared to have been dipped in fresh viscera.

For a time, there was no movement – nor sound, or scent, or sensation. Nothing but the rising tsunami of panic and numbness washing through my body as I stared into the blank shadows beneath that gossamer hood. Then the figure tilted her head slightly, as if in confusion – and in that moment, a pair of molten amber irises flared to life.

It was the Nameless Woman. The Iron Knuckle. The demoniac enforcer of Ganon, whose immaculate storm of violence had left me just short of death.


	10. 10

**10**

We stared at one another. She with sly, pleased purpose. I in mute, terror-bound astonishment.

I realized that it had begun to rain – delicately, almost shyly. A cool, quiet pattering on my hair and shoulders.

"Hello there, Hero. Once again, you look just a little _too_ surprised to see me," the Iron Knuckle grinned. "I'm sure you're fun at surprise parties and Christmas, Olsen. Always blown away by the obvious."

The Nameless Woman slid closer, fingers trailing thin strokes through rainwater pooled atop the railing. As she moved, the silvery web woven across her gown jangled its own dissonant music. Slipping from light to shadow and then back again, her shining, bestial eyes flickered like distant embers. When she drew near, I could finally make out the outline of her broad cheekbones and boxy chin. Alchemic torches glinted off of bared teeth.

My bell. Just needed to reach inside my jacket and give it a quick jingle.

Oh, fuck. My bell!

I had never taken it back. Despite the party still swinging behind me, I was – for all intents and purposes – utterly alone. All except for the madwoman before me.

I was trembling. Painfully involuntary shivers vibrated through my chest and spine.

Run. Please. Turn and run, some part of me pleaded. Not the Other Me, I think. Some other creature – a small and brutalized fragment. Terror and fleshbound nightmares.

I could not move. I couldn't even take a step back to match the Iron Knuckle's advance. I simply stared, cold and damp and drunk and so full of fear that every cell felt paralyzed, as if struck dumb by the goddesses themselves.

The Iron Knuckle stopped a pace away from me. Small raindrops speckled the shoulders of her cloak and gown. Her burning eyes pulled every iota of my attention.

As I shook numbly, mute as a broken torture victim, she gave me a serious once-over. Scanned up and down, lingering on my slack face and the bandages mummifying my left arm. At last, the Iron Knuckle inhaled sharply through her nostrils and growled, "You smell like a fucking winery, Olsen. One of the bad ones."

Behind us, voices rose in jubilation. They were accompanied by applause and an exuberant crash of music.

I should have turned, then. Should have dashed back into the banquet hall and cried a warning. Done something – anything – to let the assembled aristocracy know that a wolf prowled just outside the fold.

And yet I remained. And yet I continued to gaze into the woman's eyes. And yet I stood my ground – if one could call it that. It didn't feel like bravery. Quite the opposite.

A fully formed image pummeled into my brain:

A scene from an anti-meat documentary a friend of Jade Egoyan had made me watch while extremely stoned. Thus, susceptible to suggestion. He thought it would drive me into instant veganism, but it simply gave me recurrent anxiety dreams involving weed and hamburgers. It had contained footage of a sheep rancher scratching a gauzy lamb behind the ears, stroking the back of its neck. The lamb, blowing out a pair of contented bleats and leaning its face into the rancher's side. The killing knife, handed to the rancher from off-screen. The lamb's throat, opened in spasming shower of red.

You've sidled up, Linus. You're leaning in. You're not being brave and stoic and stolid – all you're doing is showing her the best spot to slide in the blade.

Somehow, I managed to pronounce, "Whatever it is you're here to do, know that there are more fuckin' soldiers in this palace than any other building in Hyrule. Even if you take me out, you'll have to fight every single one of them afterward."

The sides of the Iron Knuckle's gown shook with stony laughter. She brought a gloved hand to her lips and giggled through her fingers. As her chuckles faded, she leaned into the railing and shot me a smile that was as far from reassuring as it possibly could be.

"Oh, do relax, Hero. It's not that kind of visit. I'm just here to enjoy some prime vino and soak in the scenery. I've never been to this part of Hyrule, you know. It's nice."

Up this close, the Iron Knuckle exuded a curious odor – something like overheated copper and dried rose petals. I found some petty slice of relief in the fact that she wasn't wearing her armor, because I wouldn't have to endure its vile, quasi-electric hum.

Still, the woman's proximity undeniably made the hair on the back of my arms try to stand on end. Even outside the massive armor of her calling, she gave the unnerving impression of taking up much more space than was commensurate with her actual size. There was a kind of gravitational pull about the woman. Even though she stood several feet away, I felt as if I was being aggressively crowded.

"You know, it really has been a nice little _soiree, _don't you think?" the Nameless Woman smiled, showing off the full gleam of her dagger-like canines. She lolled upon the railing as if she were shooting the shit with a buddy she hadn't seen since high school. "Of course, I had to skip the dinner. Someone probably would have made me if I sat still for more than a few minutes. Still, those appetizers? Fucking _hell_, man. You've got a sweet gig here. You know that, right?"

As fatuous as she was Nameless.

. . . No. Not Nameless. Not really. I swept desperately through the wine-befouled depths of my brain, grasping at the name I knew I had heard – though only in passing, and within a purgatory of agonized horror.

"It's Mayda, isn't it?" I ventured. An insignificant sally.

The Iron Knuckle tilted her face to the side, eyes like backlit jewels. A genuinely pleased smile pulled at the edges of her mouth.

"Good ear," she rasped. "Mayda Keana. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

She extended a gloved hand. I did not take it.

I said, "I really wish that I could say the same."

"I understand the sentiment, Linus. But give me a _little _credit here."

"Fuck you," I growled.

"Fair enough," Mayda said, withdrawing her hand.

The rain was not making a fuss of it, apparently. Just coming and going as it pleased, never insistent in its arrival. It made almost dainty sounds as it sprinkled across the Iron Knuckle's cowl. Glassy beads of water rolled down the chains arrayed about her gown.

"Ye gods, man. You don't have to look so fucking . . . _frightened_. I'm not the boogieman. Or boogiewoman, for that matter."

"There are a lot of reasons why I'd beg to differ," I murmured. My hand slid wetly over the rail as I finally – _finally _– was able to take a step backward. "And unless you have a real short fuckin' memory, you do too."

The giggles she produced sounded like a hybrid of "teenage girl" and "playful tiger." It took some obvious effort on her part to tamp the outburst down. With a cough and a sputter, Mayda finally exhaled, "Okay, enough of that. To business. While the party is a big bonus, I really came out here to tell you something."

There came into her tone a seriousness so uncharacteristic that it made me queasy.

"Now. Linus." She pressed her palms together and gestured toward me with them. "You have to know how goddamn sorry I am for what happened at Kerneghi. I get . . . I get carried away sometimes. It's a failing, I know, and I'm afraid it's not going to be one of those things that I ever really get over."

". . . What?" I managed.

"I'm apologizing for fucking up your arm, you doofus." Mayda beamed magnanimously. "I really am sorry for that."

I considered this. It didn't actually compute with me, really. I spent a few moment's silence wondering if she was making of fun of me. Then it finally clicked – she actually meant it. There was no guile on her face.

"Huh!" I ejected. "Huh. Wow."

We stood there, looking one upon the other, invaded by a sudden and awkward silence. I fidgeted.

Mayda apparently dealt with awkwardness in the way she did with battle. She barreled forth with, "Like my dress?"

Finding myself staring at sweep of bodice below swaying chains, I was suddenly both elated and terrified by my drunkenness. "It's weird," I said.

The Iron Knuckle stuck out her lower lip in a jocular mock-pout. "Really? I made it myself, you know. This may knock your ass off, but I don't get many opportunities to be properly girly these days."

"Double-weird, then." I glanced at the dark woman doubtfully. "You don't look bad in it, though. Or would, if it didn't bring to mind . . ."

". . . A certain ugliness. Yes. I'm sure you'll keep reminding me of that."

"And why shouldn't I?" I spat.

"I did apologize. Should I say it again?"

I slurred, "You're actin' like you tagged me in the nuts during paintball or somethin'. I almost _died_, goddamnit!"

More than a bit petulantly: "Said I was sorry."

We each grimaced.

"You know," I said tentatively, "I remember you being taller."

"It's the suit, man. Puts on some altitude." She smirked. "Better than six-inch heels any day. Quite a job perk."

"Sure. Too bad the guy you work for is a bit of a cockmaster."

"He's more than just a 'guy,' Linus," the Iron Knuckle said. Dreamily, she whispered, "Much more. Lord Ganon is power incarnate. His hatred has shaped this world. A truly knowledgeable, able, and determined opponent. And believe me, he is _obsessed_ with you."

Her tone suddenly went soft and ruminative. With a sniff, Mayda said, "He saved me from prison, you know. Scooped me up like an avenging angel and gave me my freedom."

There was a breath of silence between us. When she didn't say anything else – just continued to look at me as if she were admiring a particularly rich cut of meat – I growled, "Oh. What. A. Shock. What were you in for? Something fucking heinous, no doubt."

That triumphant grin trembled for a moment, then faltered. It didn't leave entirely – but what I saw now was more measured. Soured. Unpleasant.

Mayda finally said, "Killing my father."

That hung in the air, lingering like some toxic cloudlet migrating through the night.

Before I could get in a single word, she added, "And that's all the more I want to talk about _that_. You can ask me anything else you want tonight, but nothing about that. It's off-limits."

I blinked. "I. Um. Really?"

"Seriously. Ask me anything."

"That's – I mean. Q and fucking A? That's what you're here for?"

"Yes, yes. Strange as it may seem, I did come here to have a conversation. And given that you're _still _at the disadvantage vis-à-vis what's really going on, I figured you might want the opportunity to pick my brain a bit."

Mayda snarled, "If that's not okay – hey, no skin off my back. I'll fuck off and you can go back to stumbling around this shindig like a bargain-basement Hunter S. Thompson." Then, almost in an aside to the night itself, "This is what I get. So much for the concept of gratitude."

"A conversation. You. And me. Just shooting the shit."

"Chewin' the fat."

"Just chillin'." I huffed a deep breath through my nostrils. "Yeah, no. No. Bullshit. This is a ruse, isn't it?"

"What? You don't trust me?"

I groaned, "Please do not tell me that you actually just asked that."

"Come on, man. Give me a break. I get the attitude – really, I do – but you should be fucking _giddy_. Here I am, offering you a window into the inner workings of this whole crazy mess. I can't promise I'll tell you everything, but I'll definitely give it some thought. What do you have to lose?"

"Another arm, if this turns out to be a trick," I grumbled.

"Sorry, really. Truly, deeply. Mea motherfucking culpa." Mayda wagged a finger with mock remonstration. "But you better get to asking before I get bored."

"Okay," I breathed. "Oh . . . kay. Okay okay okay." I thought – or at least tried to think – as hard as I could. Lit up like I was, it was an ungainly, unpleasant exercise. Somewhat like navigating a dark hallway during an earthquake. It didn't help that every one of my animal instincts was howling for me to escape.

I went immediately for a dangling issue that had bothered me ever since I had woken in Harkinian Keep: "What the hell were you doing at Jeff's place when we first met? How did you get to Earth from Hyrule?"

She adopted a pleased expression. "Well, as per the first question – and you're not gonna believe this – I was _invited _to that party."

"By who?"

"Oh, a friend of a friend," she said slyly. "You wouldn't know him. As for the second item, well . . . let's just say there are multiple methods we use to pass back home. For what I hope are obvious reasons, I can't tell you any of 'em." She seemed to reconsider. "Well – haha. Perhaps there is _one _way. The one that's completely useless to you."

I cocked my head, confused.

"You see, Armos? He can will himself and nearby objects to pass through the barrier between the worlds. Each jump can be consciously planned to land at any location Armos can clearly remember. If he alternates jumps quickly, it acts as a sort of shake-and-bake teleportation."

"You're telling me that the fucking _Bishop_ can step from here to Earth and back again whenever he wants?"

"Yep."

Even though it made sense given what I had seen, I still shook my head and guttered, "No. That's . . . How can he even do that?"

"All of the Council have received gifts from Ganon, Linus. A unique blessing bestowed upon us in celebration of our service. Armos's gift is perhaps the strangest. _He's _certainly the strangest." Mayda gazed out into the rain-speckled shadows, looking wistful and a bit bemused. "Though Stalfos can give him a run for his money, sometimes. Creepy fucker.

"Also, good on you for making the whole 'Bishop' connection." She wrinkled her nose and sneered, "Frankly, that degenerate bothers me intensely. He's probably the most fervent of Ganon's followers, but there's something so goddamn _indecent _about running with an honest-to-God serial killer. Especially since he has this fucked-up thing with women."

Across the courtyard, a lantern wove ghostlike through the dark. Attached to it was a man in servant's attire, smiling dopily and chuckling with every third or fourth uncertain step. He tottered over the flagstones as if he were navigating a ship chopping through rough breakers. A fellow far deeper in the bag than even I was, Farore help him.

Stupidly, I let my eyes leave Mayda and trace the route of this strange pilgrim. In the ensuing quiet, I more than halfway felt compelled to call out to him. Run! Get help! Alert the guards! Bring in the whole fucking First Legion!

The Iron Knuckle's voice was a neatly honed hiss: "Don't you dare, Linus. This is _our _conversation. Just us. Just _you _and _me_ and a nice autumn night."

The nameless attendant waddled and swerved and made just barely perceptible noises of blotto self-enjoyment. Scarcely aware of the tiles below his feet, much less the two people staring at him from across the lawn. I watched him disappear through a side door and back into the twisting bowels of the palace.

I shivered with an uncontrollable chill. The night brooded about us. The broken lines of rain slicing through the lamplight felt suddenly malicious.

"Where were we?" I murmured. I let loose a hoarse, anemic chuckle.

Mayda said, "Me and the party?"

"Yeah."

"Well, it's stabbing in the right direction . . . but come on, Linus. You must have better than that. That's just trivia. Why not ask something about the Council? About Ganon or the Protectorate or the war effort?"

"Okay. Okay." I wondered if there was a time limit to this. Some built-in trick she would use to justify pouncing on me like an attack dog.

"If you really can step back and forth between Hyrule and Earth, why don't you just bring a bunch of guns over here? Nothing fancy, even – just a few machine guns, maybe a rocket launcher or two. There's nothing like that here. You'd win the war easy."

"You don't think we didn't try that?" she scoffed. "Of course we tried that! It's too bad they didn't work when they got here."

"Huh?"

"Eh . . . I'm not really the one to go into details on that one, amigo," Mayda admitted, shrugging. "Kenji is our science guy. Or alchemy guy, while he's over here. And you may have noticed that he doesn't talk much.

"From what I can understand, basic physics and chemistry are _different _in Hyrule. Universal constants that we take for granted on Earth are just slightly twisted here. For instance, all the ingredients for gunpowder are freely available – they just don't do the same things. Mix 'em together and all you get is stinking dirt."

"Bullshit," I chuffed. "I've seen bombs go off here."

"Hand to God!" Mayda insisted, eyes wide and earnest. "Trust me, I was as incredulous as you."

"Go on," I said.

She continued, "Turns out Hyrule's bombs are just more weird alchemy shit. Some sort of goo that bursts into flame when it meets oxygen. Adapt it properly – something the Guild Volcanum thinks no one else can do, the schmucks – and you can turn it into a one hell of an explosive. Just not one you can adapt into a firearm, unless you really like picking half-dissolved iron shrapnel out of your guts.

"But here's the thing: it works both ways. Magic doesn't function on Earth. Take that delightful potion that kept you alive in the gorge. You know how much of a fucking fortune we would make if we packed up a crate of the Red and schlepped it back to California? Pfizer would be eating out of our hands." It was Mayda's turn to recede momentarily into her thoughts. "Of course, not many of us give much of a shit about money anymore. I sure don't."

She blew a perturbed raspberry and absently wiped a raindrop from the tip of her nose.

"Point is, it wouldn't work. The Red's just oily sludge back in ol' L.A. Other stuff too. My kickass armor, for instance, is more or less useless over there. Well – for the most part. There are exceptions, but we haven't figured out any way to make them consistent."

Mayda disengaged from the railing and began to take long, measured strides out over the veranda. I watched her with a sense of rising, nervous, hot-bellied fear. She moved like a big cat cooped up in a zoo enclosure.

"So yeah," Mayda said, "we tried guns. And computers, shortwave radios, and even an old Gameboy loaded with _Link's Awakening _for maximum ironic hilarity. Nothing worked. It's just," she made a face like she'd just found a really interesting beetle in her cornflakes, "_weird _here. Stay here long enough and it'll eventually sink in. The moon . . . the stars . . . the goddamn sunlight is different.

"But really? Do you honestly think we need guns to win this war? You saw what we have to work with at Kerneghi. What's a few Glocks compared to an armogohma?"

Having reached the end of her invisible enclosure, Mayda pivoted and began her circuit again. She flashed me a sharp, conspiratorial grin and a lightly glowing wink.

"And what the hell is the fun of using a cannon when you can kill someone up close and personal? I can't say that I've ever wounded anyone with a firearm – much less killed them – but I submit that the sensation has to be some weak shit compared to the pleasures of the axe and sword. You don't feel that bone-deep _vibration _that runs up your weapon when it lands. None of the heat and stink and sound – but God, the _sounds_! – of a good in-your-face fight. Use a gun and I bet you never even hear what noise muscle makes when it tears open. The _snap _of bones shattering. Or that gushy little _hiss _when an artery is severed."

The Iron Knuckle regarded me somberly, eyes aflame.

"Seriously. Who the hell would want that?"

A staccato splash of laughter emanated from the open ballroom doors. Drums thrummed out a playfully. Mayda's rhetorical question hung between on us on quicksilver filaments of rain.

"And you say you have a problem with _the Bishop_? Jesus Christ on a cracker."

"C'mon. He's different. Armos butchers innocents, and gets off on doing it. I bring the sword only to those worthy of it."

"S'all the same to me," I said. "Same violence. The same pointless killing. Same bullshit all around."

Mayda clucked her tongue and said, "You make it sound so _unseemly_, Hero. Like we're opening a crooked used car lot." She sighed and stretched hands over her head, fingers laced together. "But no more of that judgy, quasi-philosophical crap for tonight, please? Next question."

"Fine." Once more, I went with the first thing that popped into my skull. I asked, "How is it you can move so fast while you're wearing all that armor?"

"Well, this may have gotten lost in all the, uh, _craziness _of the last time we met, but you may have noticed that my armor's not exactly a suit you can just pick up at the local blacksmith's place."

"Obviously."

"Well, right. It's special. The _armor _was my gift from Ganon, given to me when I bowed before him and pledged him my service. That, and reflexes – the war-sense – necessary to use it."

"How's that?"

Every tooth Mayda showed incrementally deepened my sense of dread. "There's a sort of . . . _awareness _to it. I see the world differently. Every single moment I experience seems to swim separately from the others."

My mouth twisted with befuddlement. "What does that mean?"

"Oh – it's difficult to describe. It's a different sort of perception than the one I had before my blessing. In a way, I can almost parcel out blocks of time and look hard – real hard – at each of them in detail."

"That sounds . . . well, not to piss you off or anything, but that sounds like you're just deeply, deeply stoned."

"Perhaps," Mayda laughed. "Though – and correct me if I'm wrong, because it's been a long while since I smoked the chiba – not many people have such total mastery of their environments while toasted. None could do the things I can do.

"No – this is different. Even as it parts time, it also makes it flow back together. Connections become so apparent. Weak points rendered utterly obvious. In battle, it's as if I dance through a galaxy of calculations and nebulae of possibility. The last, tiny part of me that remembers how I used to see and smell and feel holds all of that in complete awe. It's beautiful."

For this insane evocation, I had no reply.

"So," the Iron Knuckle sighed, "it's really not like being high at all."

She leaned forward with a sandpaper purr. "And you would know, wouldn't you, Linus? A proper little stoner, you are. If the reports are accurate, you spent the entire weekend after you retrieved the Master Sword marinating in reefer. Pulled a smoky cover over the entire world so you wouldn't have to face the inevitable."

An arctic stiffness shuddered through my muscles. My gorge whipped and churned.

"Yessir, you treated the whole affair with a kind of silly utilitarianism, as I recall. Just hid the sword away and set to getting as baked as possible while watching movies."

Sweet Jesus.

"_Robocop_, was it? Yes, I remember that. It stuck out in my head."

"How the _fuck_ do you know about that?" I suddenly snarled.

Something coy and playful stole into Mayda's expression. It frolicked at the edges of her lips.

The Iron Knuckle softly said, "Don't you know? You must have a few suspicions. There are many ways to maintain surveillance on a person. All sorts of directional microphones and high-zoom lenses."

For a time, I had almost let the casual tone of our private chat lull me into a sense of normalcy. Despite its hideous origin, it had begun to develop a kind of tense bonhomie – the snappy back-and-forth of new acquaintances testing boundaries.

But now all bets were off. I found myself quivering with a thick, odious mélange of anger, wet cold, and rapidly snowballing fear.

Mayda sidled up against the garden rail with a lazy, languorous flop. "You look upset, Linus. Are you upset?"

I launched into sudden motion, matching Mayda's earlier movement. Boots squelched over wet stone. Mayda watched me with amused patience.

"Of course I'm _upset_!" I barked. "You admit that you and your fucking buddies –"

"No buddies of mine," she said laconically.

"– were watching me? Tracking me? Peeking on me while I was in the shower? Taking a shit?!" I made an ineffectual flailing motion. "Pretty sure I jerked off in the bathroom that weekend, Mayda. You have a video of that?"

"Christ, I hope not."

"Fuck you. Fuckyoufuckyou_fuckyou_!" I gibbered.

"Hey now. I'm all for such talk on the battlefield. But this is a respectable establishment," Mayda chuckled. "Besides . . ."

She arched her back, gown flowing behind her the same way her cape had moved during our ill-fated duel. Pendants and tiny chain-link clinked and jangled as Mayda rose from her measured slouch.

"Best keep it down, Hero, or you'll wake the neighbors," the Iron Knuckle purred. She glanced back at the doors leading into the banquet. "And then I really don't know what I'd do."

I spasmed about so abruptly that a lion's roar of pain erupted from my arm. The sensation propelled me forth in a dwarfish charge, index finger jutting like a fencing foil. Mayda made no attempt to tamp down her gleeful mirth.

"You come here and you act all casual about murdering dozens of people? Tell me that your boss treated me like a rat in a cage and then act like it's no big deal? Threaten my friends? And yet you expect me to just_ let this shit go_?!" I spat. "You must be insane. You _are _insane, you you – you _bitch _you fucking bi –"

Truth be told, I still wasn't used to the largely treadless Hylian dress boots. Stylish; great comfort; but not terribly recommended for mountain climbing. Or polished wet tiles, for that matter.

At that moment, my inexperience with them undid me. Before I could finish the next syllable, my right foot was suddenly sluicing out in front of me much faster than the left. The boot swept upward, carrying all my miscalculated momentum behind it as if on a tether. I didn't even have time to properly realize that I was about to slip and fall ass over tea kettle.

[_Just fucking super, Linus._]

The careening night was overtaken by a kaleidoscope of blood and moonlight. A whispery slash of metal and silk. Steel wrapped in velvet took hold of my shoulders. The plummet ended as abruptly as it had begun.

Mayda Keana propped me back up with a touch that was gentle, but exuded almost Herculean restraint. Her arm muscles seemed to ripple with the effort of _not _being used. She flashed me an almost demure smile and stepped back with arms crossed. I gazed at her as she retreated, body still incandescent with misfired rage.

"You really are shitfaced, aren't you?" Mayda said quietly.

I said nothing, but my treasonous body's continued sway did all the talking necessary.

"Just like when we first met, huh?" Mayda said. "It's enough to make me nostalgic! If one can get nostalgic about something that happened a month ago."

Her eyes smoldered. "You really need do need to calm your drunk ass down, Linus. I won't be able to help myself if things get out of hand."

"You're a fucking psychopath."

She shrugged. "Sociopath, actually. Well – I was never diagnosed. But I've suspected it for a long time. That or something like it."

I stared, seething, all but steaming in the pallid half-drizzle. Amid the damp grass and clean, sharp scent of rain on bare stone, I detected a whiff of branna smoke. Someone out amid the dark galleries, lighting up in contemplative solitude? A ring of noblemen or servants, passing a pipe between clouds of inebriated conversation?

The lamps hissed and popped as raindrops struck their sides.

"Enough," I exhaled. "Just – done. I'm done. You may be getting off on this, but I'm less than fucking happy about it. Unless this conversation," (pronounced, to the Inner Me's wince, _cawverzayshun_), "ends with you takin' me back to L.A., I'm through with you. Fuck off."

It was not without a barrel's worth of nerves that I turned on my heel and began marching away from her. My spine and ankles tingled with nascent terror.

"Maybe the Bishop's right about you."

I halted, just now cognizant of how furiously my heart was crashing against my ribs.

"Maybe you really are just some burnout. Yet another guy in his twenties who couldn't hack it once he stepped outside the walls of Mom and Dad's house."

I forced myself to pivot back to face her. Lifeless white lamplight haloed the Iron Knuckle like a blood-dim apparition. She regarded me half-lidded from within her gossamer helm, expression somewhere between concern and distaste.

"Just one more broken child hiding in the skin of a man. A coward and a disappointment, even to himself," Mayda said.

"Why are you doing this to me?" I asked weakly. At that moment, it seemed as if all energy were draining from me, wicked away by rain and every verbal jab the Iron Knuckle deployed. I felt dull and dim and somehow boneless. A human jellyfish, floating alone in a cold and endless benthic twilight.

"Linus, you better tighten up or I'm going to start believing you're just as thick as the Bishop thinks you are. The man really does talk shit about you incessantly," Mayda tutted. "You already asked me that, and I already gave you my honest answer."

She closed her eyes and tilted her head back to the sky, smiling warmly, rapturously. "You're the Link. The Hero. The savior of the Hylian people, foretold in songs and legend. You're the only one who can square down with Ganon."

Miserably, I thought: _Am_ I the Link? Could I possibly be that mythical creature, chained by Fate and headed toward some incomprehensibly violent destiny? Absurd.

I fought dual urges – bound fast together like conjoined twins – to howl in rage and burst into helpless tears.

Mayda stepped toward me, palms outstretched. Placating, pleading, supplicating, supporting. An odious incongruity.

"Listen – I get it. I know this sounds like horseshit coming from me, of all people, but I _do _get it. Despite all the pomp and ceremony and great food and women just lining up to jump into bed with you, this is a fairly shit hand you've been dealt. Last month, all you were probably worrying about was whether you'd have enough left over from paying the rent to sock some away for a new computer. Now, this place – this fucking _place_, man! – has put the weight of the entire world on your shoulders. You're hurt and tired and probably still confused as shit.

"That's where I fucked up the worst, really," she sighed. "Back in the gorge, I mean. Gettin' all in a tizzy because you broke down when you did. I forgot how hard the transition can be. It's easy, four years on, to forget how jarring it is just to _exist _here.

"Me? One minute, I was lying in my cell, reading some junk paperback romance I'd pulled off the library cart at random that afternoon. Then out of fuckin' nowhere my parasite of a half-brother is standing there, all teeth and elbows. Just another nightmare after drifting off, I thought. And then, with no warning whatsoever, I'm on my ass on top of the Foundry, hot wind and cinders blowing through my hair."

Mayda inhaled sharply. Her eyes blazed. "On my ass, staring up at the G-Man, in the flesh. On my ass and listening to a proposal from the goddamn devil himself."

"Foundry?" I burbled.

"Quiet," she chided. "I'm monologuing. Give a proper villain her moment, okay?" Mayda dipped her head in a manner that was damned near coquettish. Seeming to recompose herself, she said, "Point is, I'm not trying to be an asshole here. I understand you need time to digest all this."

It wasn't until I smelled dead flowers and overclocked wiring that I realized how close Mayda had come. A red-wrapped finger shot out and jabbed me in the chest, just below my rain-limp cravat.

Mayda grinned, "And even more to the point: You _are _the Hero, Linus. I told you that at Kerneghi, and hand to God, it is not a lie. You may be a shambles right now, but I've seen you at your best. Yeah, you're a bit of a putz sometimes. But scratch off that top layer of self-pity and mopey navel-gazing, and it turns out there's so much more to you. So much anger. So much determination."

I blinked uncertainly and said, "These're some pretty heavy mixed signals, y'know."

Mayda screwed up her features and shrugged with full-on _Whaddyagonnado? _gravitas. She chattered, "Hey, I've never been great with other people. When I'm not in the ring with 'em, that is. This is, like, seriously heady emotional shit for me."

"Noted, I guess."

"Now," she clapped her gloves together with a brawny _whap_. "You cool? We cool?"

"I wouldn't call it that," I said. "But if you want me to stick around, I will. If it means that much to you."

Mayda nodded excitedly. "Yes. Definitely! We've got some time yet, and so far as I can tell, you've yet to ask the most important question of all."

"And what's that?"

She smirked, "What is the relationship between Hyrule and Earth? How are the two worlds connected so that people – even just a select few – are able to travel between them? How is it that Earth knows almost everything about Hyrule, but Hyrule knows next to nothing about Earth?"

I frowned, wondering why I hadn't just sprinted for safety when I had the chance. The hooded woman gaze at me intently, as if she expected me to actually answer.

I didn't so much say as ooze, "I have no fucking idea."

"Well, sure," Mayda said. She began sashaying farther down the veranda, away from the banquet hall. There was a playful little spring in her step. Did she expect me to follow? "But don't you have any ideas? Theories? Hypotheses?"

I reached up and ran my fingers through my gelid hair, squeegeeing water out between my fingers. Cool rivulets ran down the back of my neck. "Sure. I've thought about it, from time to time. But you should know that I've been a bit busy for that kind of thing."

I actually had to scurry after her to keep up with the conversation. Mayda said, "Fine enough. But doesn't the _incongruity _of this world ever just stop you dead in your tracks?"

"Mayda, there are cats the size of greyhounds and talking sharks here. Of course it gets to me! I have to stop and fuggin', I dunno, _reboot _at least once a day or I shut down."

"Not really what I'm talking about," she breathed, pausing in her constitutional. When the Iron Knuckle looked back over her shoulder, only her irises shone catlike in the depths of her red cowl. "You can go to Mexico for a bit of culture shock. What I'm referring to runs a lot deeper. It's not just the societal shit. It's the _familiarity_, man! The similarities to –"

"The video games," I finished.

A sickle-moon of teeth appeared below the burning amber of her eyes. "Exactly! This is _Hyrule_, Linus. The same place you and I 'visited' back when we were kids, more or less. Right on down to the names and faces!"

"Please. I've already gone over this a thousand times in my head since I got here. It almost drove me crazy. Literally. You _saw _how close I came to going straight bugfuck from it. There's no real answer. So don't even bother."

"What if there was, though?"

"An answer?"

"Yes," Mayda said sagely. "There's always an answer. Sometimes it's just harder to reach."

"I'm guessing all this dramatic buildup means that _you _have an answer, then."

"I may," she said smugly.

"Then out with it."

Mayda laced her fingers together and squeezed, producing a gut-jabbing series of knuckle-cracks. She waggled her eyebrows provocatively.

The woman in red stated, "It's clear that the two worlds are of separate and discrete realities, yes?"

"Am I supposed to answer that?" I asked tiredly.

"No. Shoosh. Bad guy diatribe!" Mayda seemed to double back and mull her next words. "Earth and Hyrule – or whatever we call the planet, solar system, et cetera surrounding Hyrule – occupy two distinct physical and existential spaces. The differences between the two seem to defy rational thought – so far as physics, chemistry, and biology go. Constants that are ironclad on Earth are either tweaked or completely different in Hyrule."

Mayda swept past me, talking with her hands as she said, "Not only do these differences make no earthly sense, Hyrule resembles a common cultural product from Earth – so much so that individual people depicted in that product exist here. Not only do they exist here, they exist _now_, at the moment that you and I exist here."

Weakly, I attempted, "Coincidence?"

The Iron Knuckle heaved a chuckle like razors on rocks. "Once is a coincidence, Hero. Twice and things get fishy. But this is an entire _world _of coincidences, amigo. So many analogues in people, places, and occurrences that I spent the first few months here half-certain that I'd finally given up on waiting for parole and retreated into my own skull for the duration."

"Now _that _I can relate with."

"My point is that Hyrule is utterly reflective of an aspect of our home place and time – and yet it displays none of the opposite. It feels like a reality dictated by a weird, plastic version of Fate," she said, giving me a wide brimstone stare. "Or maybe by design."

While the sentiment was one that I had puzzled over more than a few times myself, hearing someone else say it out loud sent a numbing pulse through my bones. "Mayda, please do not tell me that we're plugged into the fuckin' Matrix."

The Iron Knuckle cackled delightedly. "Hahaha noooo. No. Haha. I assure you that our real bodies are not hooked up to some giant, post-apocalyptic Super Nintendo. Heh."

She continued her restless stroll up and down the veranda, with me shuffling behind her like an overworked personal assistant hot on the trail of an imperious executive. "Then again," she mused, "that may be entirely the wrong way to look at it. Take the opposite tack: the relationship between this reality, universe, whatever, and the video games on Earth. Perhaps the angle of Fate and prophecy are inverted, yes?"

"Less word wank, please."

She stretched out her burly arms and swept them over the courtyard, the palace, all things and fellows. "Hyrule and Earth exist simultaneously, on an equivalent timescale. Remember: we of the Inner Council can make the trip back and forth between the worlds with only the slightest trouble. Even though they are very different places with very different flavors, they are equally 'real,' in the practical sense.

"Thus, Hyrule must have existed before this point in time, congruous with Earth. Perhaps even side by side, in some way that I'm sure only a quantum physicist could explain."

"A parallel universe?"

"Sure. Maybe. Perhaps so parallel that one exists in the other's shadow, so to speak. Or even each to the other." She ceased pacing and showed me her canines. "And the thing about shadows? They exert influence, of a sort. If Earth lies in Hyrule's shadow so closely that we can step between the two as if through a hallway, who's to say what else has crossed between? What if impressions of this place have _wafted _over there like the smell of a neighbor's cooking? What if some essence of Hyrule made its way over the universal divide? Perhaps in the dreams of a certain mop-haired game designer?"

"So you're implying that Hyrule pre-dates _The Legend of Zelda_? That this place somehow – what – _influenced_ the games' creation?"

"Who's to say?" she said wistfully.

"I'd like an answer that isn't also a goddamn riddle for once."

Without even pretending to answer my question, Mayda jabbed a hand beneath the folds of her sanguinary cloak. With a swiftness that reminded me of Zelda's many ingenious hidden pockets, the Iron Knuckle withdrew an argent disc attached to a length of chain so fine it looked like spider's silk. She pressed a thumb against the top of the object, clicking open a previously indiscernible lid. Whatever she saw inside the disc caused her eyes to narrow and her lips to draw down into an irritable comma.

"The fuck is that?"

"A watch." She snapped the instrument shut. Her eyes flitted my way. "Oh, don't look so incredulous, Hero. Even the Inner Council has a schedule to keep. Point of fact, our dance cards are even more stringently managed than most.

"Speaking of which: this has been fun and all, but I have to bounce soon. Places to go, people to bleed. So. One last thing, Hero."

Suddenly she was strutting my way, the intense dark-star pull of her presence all but unbearable. Mayda leaned in toward me, a gesture made all the more brash by the fact that she was, in fact, shorter than I was.

In a voice like pyre smoke, she said, "Do you want to know a sweet, sweet secret?"

The Iron Knuckle pressed so close that her lips grazed the outer edge of my ear. I smelled funeral parlor bouquets.

"There is a traitor here," she whispered joyfully. "Right here, right now, in this very palace. One who has sold all of Hyrule to Ganon in exchange for . . . well, that would ruin the surprise. But rest assured, Linus – you are betrayed."

I looked into her eyes, shaking. I breathed in smells of damp and alchemic fire. "Who?" I managed.

"All you need to know is that we are always five moves ahead of you. Every decision made in this palace is known to us quickly and efficiently. Our mole is quite the clever operator. If you ever manage to figure out his or her identity, I'll eat my own shoes."

As Mayda receded, I looked at her with a sense of revulsion mixed liberally with an uncanny admiration of her utter ballsiness. Gone was my desire to run from the woman while sobbing – if anything, I realized that I was disappointed that she was apparently about to leave. The sensations knotted together deep in my chest, tight and hot and aggressively strange.

I blurted, "If I killed you right here and now, it would save me a lot of trouble, wouldn't it?"

How disturbing it was to watch someone's eyes _literally _light up with excitement. "Please, try! I would love to see you try!" the Iron Knuckle shuddered, voice gnarled and breathless. She began taking sideways steps, pulling her out toward the rows of lamps.

"I didn't . . . I mean I . . ." I blinked and flapped my jaw and realized that I was done walking things back. My hand dropped and hovered as if in blank magnetic attraction over the sheath attached to my hip. I took a step in concert with Mayda.

"You're not in armor," I murmured. "You don't have backup. You're alone. Maybe this time I can take you."

A microburst of lupine chuckles followed the Iron Knuckle's path. "You think so, Hero?" she purled. "I may be alone and unarmed, but you're drunk as an Irish uncle and only have_ one hand_. I like your moxy, but you might want to rethink this."

My boots made sleek sounds as they propelled me over the veranda. My finger brushed cool, unyielding metal. I said, "If I kill you, how many people get to keep on living? How many . . . how many more soldiers get to go home to their families after all is said and done?"

We moved in tandem. Each step matched. Every slippery stride mirrored in the other, deliberate as cogs and clockwork. Each traced a circle with the other as its focal point. Prelude to showdown.

"Sweet Christmas, you really have a mad-on for me, don't you?" Mayda grinned. "Why, I'm _flattered_. Are you having nightmares, Linus? When you close your eyes at night, do you dream of me?"

I swallowed, throat like the Mojave. "Sometimes," I said.

Her elated grin shrunk, changed shape, became something that felt completely alien to our current death-dance. "You probably have a touch of PTSD, truth be told. Really, I'm surprised at how well you're doing. People turn into spineless blobs for much less than what you went through."

Only later did I recognize her expression as sympathy.

"Don't care," I drawled. "This is sick. This is obscene. If I can end it now . . ."

Not unkindly, "You can't win, Hero. Not tonight."

"Even if it's a mistake . . . I gotta do something," I said. "I gotta try."

Abruptly, Mayda ended our circle chase. She jerked to a stop, gown swishing and chains tinkling with dread festiveness. From within her hood, I could just see the manic upwelling of joy upon her face. "Well well well! I _knew_ I backed the right horse! Now _this_ . . . this is good warm-up. Anyone ever tell you you're good at setting the mood, Hero?"

"Wait – what?"

The Iron Knuckle showed me her gloved hands, fingers flexing into fists as she declared, "I may have lied a bit when I said I had just dropped by to talk. For what it's worth – not much, I suspect – I'm sorry about that, too."

That greasy, confused ball of respect and repulsion evaporated. In its place yawned a glacial pit. Horror gleamed in its depths.

Mayda said, "See, the Inner Council liked the idea of this shindig so much that we decided to throw a party of our own."

She extended a finger and pointed at the billowing orange flow pouring through the open doors of the ballroom. As if from a parallel dream, energetic strings and drumbeats sifted into the cold night. "Much of this country continues to labor under the ridiculous delusion that it isn't really fighting for its survival. Especially these pampered idiots – these supposedly powerful few."

"No," I whimpered.

Raising her voice into a volcanic roar, the Iron Knuckle cried, "It's time that these foolish creatures discover what it truly means to be at war! I think that even these dainty aristocrats should know fear and desperation." She shot out a fist and pumped it in unbridled, unhinged excitement. "Tonight is the night of a thousand flames, Linus. You've already popped the cork on the champagne. Now, we just need the fireworks."

Fear like a typhoon, overwhelming and unstoppable. My eyes spun, searching for some kind of meaning or purchase. Through my head screamed a dozen different directives, smashing my stupid, single-minded, earlier bravery into matchsticks.

"Well . . ." Mayda crooned, ". . . if I read that clock right, it should be starting soon. Right . . . about . . ."

There was a distant roar, pressing itself against the sky. A concussion that thrummed and echoed and shook the otherwise solid ground beneath my feet.

"NOW!" the Iron Knuckle cried out in triumph.

Outside the palace walls, there rose wails of fear and astonishment.

"What the hell was that?" I shouted.

Mayda winked. The expression left a greasy, revolted sensation in my guts. She breathlessly said, "Oh, that would be the opening bell, Linus. The starting gun. The first salvo in what we hope to be a long campaign of joyous destruction. Welcome to the _real _party."

Inside the banquet hall, the blithely joyful music had come to an abrupt halt. Anxious voices fluttered through the night. Somewhere, a bell began to toll.

With an expression of giddy ecstasy, Mayda Keana proclaimed, "I'd say the cocktail hour has passed, Hero! Back to work and all that. Duty calls. Now . . ."

With all the purpose of a potentate, the Iron Knuckle strode toward the veranda doors and the ballroom beyond.

". . . I guess it's time to greet my adoring public."


	11. 11

**11**

Was I in motion? Or was it merely that the entire world had begun to tilt forward, accelerating towards some awful, inescapable pendulum point?

All I knew was that the Iron Knuckle's trajectory was the fulfillment of a hellish promise – one made to me as if it were little more than a worst-case nightmare. Now the veil had been ripped away, and what was laid bare was so terrible it had shocked my mind into benumbed half-consciousness.

"No," I whimpered.

And yet, I actually _was _moving. Juddering forward with stiff-legged steps, directly at Mayda Keana's heels. Heedless, the woman in the red dress marched on.

"No no no not tonight," I snarled. "You don't get to do this. _Not fucking tonight_!"

There was a sound of grinding steel as the Iron Knuckle pivoted mid-step. As she turned, I saw with mute horror that the leather boots she had previously been wearing had (_somehow_) been replaced by a pair of luminescent greaves.

Mayda said, "If you want to stop me, draw your sword."

My hand was already there. Half-numb fingers slid wetly over the pommel.

"Do it," the Iron Knuckle hissed. "God, how I want you to do it."

For some seconds, we stared hard into each others' eyes. By some nameless grace, my gaze did not falter.

And then:

Another dreadful bass rumble shook the air. It was farther away this time, originating from deep in Hylium. Out in the twist of palace corridors, there was a tinkle of broken glass.

"There we go!" Mayda purled. "That's two. Those idiots in the Guild Volcanum aren't the only ones who can build a proper bomb."

It isn't fair, I thought. It had been going so well. Well – not _great_, exactly. But as nights that seemed to destined to end with me passed out on a couch went, it had been less mortifying than anticipated.

But now this. Now _her_.

My poorly timed angst over the situation translated into a bout of hesitation. An interval wherein I stood platter-eyed, shivering, head cocked, palm frozen atop my sword.

By contrast, the Iron Knuckle's expression was a portrait of happy serenity. One could be forgiven for looking at her and not expecting impending murders.

"Feh!" Mayda finally chuffed. "And here I thought things were about to get real interesting. I mean – they _will_, obviously. But I could have sworn you were going to surprise me. Looks like you still need some sharpening, Hero."

Again she swiveled with a sound like shredding tin. Her gown shimmered as if coated by a fine layer of mist.

Fucking _wait_! I despaired, just barely able push my heels off the ground. Even as the Knuckle charged ahead, I dashed after. So close now – just outside the great doors. As we approached, I could see elegant women in ball-gowns moving alongside effete men in suit coats.

Mayda stopped suddenly. She wheeled about and said, "Huh. Still limping alongside? You really are a glutton for punishment, aren't you?" Her eyes burned like furnace flames.

"Don't," I pleaded. "Please. This is pointless. Trust me – if you go in there, it won't go well. Shit will go down. I'm far from the only one with a sword here tonight. Just . . . walk away."

Mayda shrugged. Her gown twinkled silver and red, silver and red.

"No can do, Linus," she sighed. "These are my orders. Even I can't resist the will of Ganon." With a wry grin, Mayda said, "At the very least, I can provide you with a bit of entertainment. All that schmoozing had to get a bit boring, eh?"

Tiny runnels of pale, golden light began to streak across the contours of Mayda's dress. "Wanna see some shit, Linus?" she cackled. "Watch closely! I'll show you some shit you won't believe!"

I stared – stunned into idiocy – as the red of her dress very literally began to _run_. It flowed downward like swift candle wax – then contorted into a series of spirals, starbursts, and brindle streaks.

I smelled the acrid dryness of ozone. The hairs on my arms stood at attention.

Every chain and strand dangling about Mayda's body became as substantial as argent vapor. Threads of liquid moonlight wove over her hands. A silvery lattice built itself out from the edges of her dress. Immense gauntlets spun into existence as if built by an army of invisible spiders.

The deep red of her hood paled, draining of color as if blanched beneath a desert sun. With seconds, the fabric shone a brilliant alabaster – and then wasn't fabric at all.

The liquid crimson of her gown followed suit, turning the color and consistency of roiling mercury. Steel plates rose from that silvery vortex – assembling, settling, sliding into place. Arterial inlays of enamel washed onto each plate as if they were being painted there before my eyes.

Mayda grew. Suddenly, she was taller than I was.

Where once was a hood now towered a great helm, still molding into place and hardening. A mohawk-like crest slid out of the peak of the helm like a shark's fin

The bottom dropped out of my belly. All that lay beneath was emptiness – a precipitous, endless freefall. After all, I was watching the ineffable assembly of the same creature that had nearly stolen my life.

The true Iron Knuckle soon stood before me, stinking of lightning and blood.

Somehow, I did not shit my pants.

"_There _we go!" the Iron Knuckle barked. Though it still had Mayda's inherent gravel, her voice projected as androgynous and almost mechanical. She flexed the gold-tipped fingers of her gauntlets. "Superb build, if I do say so myself. Classic, but utilitarian. Stylish, but tailored for the task at hand. Comfortable as a glove."

It took me a moment to figure out what Mayda was babbling about, but then it struck me: this wasn't exactly the same armor she had worn during our last encounter. This suit was slimmer in the abdomen and had small, rounded pauldrons rather than the tremendous shoulder-plates it had sported before. Perhaps most importantly, the armor did not trail a billowing silken cape.

The suit cut a profile that was almost more vicious and threatening than its predecessor. Rather than overwhelming with its presence, it seemed like a razor-sleek promise.

I had no time to gawk. Instead, a pair of blazing irises leaned close. From darkness rose a dagger-toothed grin. The Iron Knuckle happily blurted, "You know, I just had the best goddamn idea! C'mere."

No. No time at all.

A pair of shining hands shot out as if from between the raindrops. They wrapped implacably about my chest, clamping steel fingers into the still-tender cage of my ribs. A nauseating static charge radiated across my skin.

I coughed, gagged, tried to shout out a curse, and proceeded only to hiss like a wounded cockroach. Eyes pressed shut with pain.

My stomach somersaulted as my feet left the ground. I felt the Iron Knuckle hoist me upward. That hideous fucking electric sensation seethed through my flesh. When I should have fought, I fell limp. Through my barely parted eyes, I saw disembodied faces turning my way. Whispers floated through the night.

_What is this, then?_

_That sound came from over the walls, right? Out in the city?_

_What a strange suit of armor!_

_Is that who I think it is?_

_Now, now!  
><em>

_. . . in exceedingly poor taste, if you ask me_.

Beneath me, the Iron Knuckle rumbled, "Beg your apology, Hero – but you of all people should know the importance of making a flashy entrance. I'll buy you a beer or something."

The world blurred. There was relief upon feeling the Iron Knuckle release me – followed immediately by the terror that said release was at velocity.

I flew, twisting end-over-end, into the banquet hall. I only had a brief moment to register the warm, thick air and the remaining scents of good cooking. Only a second to register dozens of gasps inhaling at once. My eyes squeezed shut in anticipation of –

_Aw,_ _fuck!_

– impact. Right shoulder, meet marble tiles. I came to rest with a sickening _THUD_.

Some seconds of blinding pain later, I emerged to a single thought: Oh, for fuck's sake. It's like getting knocked around by this woman is my new hobby.

I had landed hard. Much later, I would find out that I probably fractured my shoulder blade. Thankfully, the many sheets I had unfurled over the night dulled the collision.

But it still hurt like a proverbial motherfucker.

When I opened my eyes, it was to blurry, blood-orange chandelier light. Whispers and mutters and cries and shouts of complaint swam about me like hungry eels. Noble Hylian accents were taking on a sour edge of panic. I groaned and flexed my legs, struggling to rise. The world canted nauseatingly.

As I shuddered upward, I felt strong, dexterous fingers press upon my shoulders. I sputtered wetly and swung my addled vision about to face the fingers' owner. Something was so familiar about their touch . . .

I saw an iridescent flow of violet. Smelled sharp ginger and silk. Zelda al-Imzadi's eyes drilled into me. "There you are. You damned fool!" she hissed. "You promised me that you would not disgrace this evening with your idiocy. Do you even understand how much the King has gambled in gi –"

Zelda's eyes skimmed past me for but a moment before they opened so wide I could see their curvature. Swatches of ashen gray spread across her alabaster skin.

I allowed myself to follow her gaze, past a sea of scandalized faces. Confusion and amusement and straight-up fear played across their expressions.

Beyond them, framed in the doorway to the veranda, loomed that lithe suit of armor. As the banquet's amber light played across its features, the eyes of its occupant swam like a wolf on the hunt. They stared outward, taking the measure of the room.

Zelda heaved a painful exhalation and pushed me backward. It was a gentle, measured push – but there was a surprising strength behind it. She stood straight as a statue and fully faced the Iron Knuckle.

Though the effects of my tumble into the hall were fading quickly, I still hadn't quite caught up with the situation. Perhaps that explains why I ended up so slow to properly react – to really face up against my terror and take action.

All I know is that I watched Zelda take a step forward and begin to open her mouth to speak.

Before the handmaiden could get out a single syllable, the Iron Knuckle stepped over the sill and let a single greave crash into the banquet hall. Mayda amiably growled, "Hey, girl! Lookin' good tonight! That color suits you. Now, if you don't want to have your skull smashed into jelly, get the fuck out of my way."

Zelda stopped cold. A shudder ran down her back. She fell back a step, planting her heel.

Yeah, I mulled miserably. I'm pretty scared, too.

Out to my left, the crowd parted with a series of inhalations and crack-voiced oaths, underlain with the jangle of swaying steel. From the mass of nobility emerged one of the many guardsmen posted about the ballroom, looking ungainly and winded in his elaborate ceremonial armor. In one hand he brandished a gilded lance. With the other, he waved his gauntlet back and forth, brusquely sweeping aside any guests in his way.

The guard exited the tumult and skidded to a halt in front of the doorway. He flailed at Zelda, wordlessly urging her back as he locked eyes with the Iron Knuckle. Standing at full attention, the legionary shouted, "In the name of High King Harkinian, I demand that you identify yourself and stand dow –"

There was no warning for what came next. One moment, the Iron Knuckle stood still as an industrial sculpture. In the next, she shot forward with the swiftness of a pit viper. Between blinks, her fist had snaked up into the guardsman's helmet. Steel fingers pressed into his mouth and curled, clenching, about his lower teeth.

Oh, God.

There was a fibrous, cracking, meaty _pop_ as the Iron Knuckle wrenched back her gauntlet. Pollock patterns of red and black spattered her armor. From her dripping fingers glistened a horror of bone and teeth and gristle. Mayda took a clanging step backward, as if to admire her handiwork. With a dazed shudder, the guard tried to turn back into the ballroom. There was something almost ashamed about the movement.

From my angle, it looked as if the bottom half of guardsman's face had simply _disappeared_. As he tilted, goggle-eyed and twitching, I saw more and more strands of shredded muscle. A flash of brilliantly white bone. At last, I beheld the full, mind-flaying extent of where the legionary's jaw had once been attached.

From this ragged cavern issued a pathetic, warbling mewl. The soldier's eyes rolled up into his head and his hands clutched fervently at nothing. His knees buckled, and then he was collapsing to the floor. He lay there, spasming within the hollow confines of his armor.

Blood – thick and dark as cough syrup in the chandelier light – expanded over the tiles. A chorus of screams battered my eardrums.

Mayda dropped her ghoulish trophy with a moist _splud_. She walked over the dismembered jawbone as if it were a chunk of roadkill.

It was all I could do to even stand – much less resist– as the crowd broke and began scrambling backward like a herd of terrified cattle. Boots and elegant sandals struck an idiot's symphony. I could only try to hold my ground. And yet, various elbows and body-checks bore me backward.

Ponds of wine and beer flowed as cups clattered across the floor. Someone was gibbering a prayer of mercy and forgiveness. Armor plates clashed and banged as other guardsmen approached from across the ballroom. There was a sharp reek of evacuated bowels.

Through the madding throng darted men in charcoal-gray uniform coats. Even if the legionary heroes were the ones being feted here tonight, they apparently weren't going to run from a fight.

I regained my footing long enough to look back at the veranda door and the crumpled horror at its step. The Iron Knuckle had crossed farther into the room, but was apparently in no hurry to get anywhere in particular. The enameling on her armor pulsed and flowed.

Seemingly driven before the Knuckle, Zelda was falling back with quick and flustered footsteps. Her hands pawed frantically through the interior of her cloak. High on her cheekbones were streaks of red so deep they verged on the color of raw meat.

Just as she was about to reach me among the last of the stragglers, Zelda halted. Her nostrils flared and the usually flat line of her mouth turned sharply downward. She began to turn back to face the Iron Knuckle's advance.

Oh . . . fucking hell. Fuck. Fuck! She's going to get herself killed!

I scuttled forward and wrapped my hand about her shoulder. My fingers sank into layers of silk and satin – and then rested on powerful muscle, pulled taut as coiled steel.

"Don't. Jesus. Not now. Don't be stupid," I hissed.

"What?! You _dare_?" Zelda snarled.

Her features contorted into an expression so animalistic – so blindly, nakedly hateful – that I could scarce believe it belonged to the same woman.

I remembered the terrifying glimpse I had gotten a hint of . . . _something_ . . . in her features outside the temple at Harkinian Keep. That immaculate sadism and pleased brutality. The grin of a blood-drunk hunter.

Somehow, this new face was much worse.

Holy shit: Zelda had been wrong. I was seeing her angry after all.

"Whoa whoa whoa," I blustered, waving a hand as if to ward her off. "Take it down a notch, man! I'm sorry I touched you without asking. But you need to chill the fuck out and help me figure out a goddamn plan!"

Man. Who was looking after who here?

Mayda Keana continued to stride lazily into the ballroom. Every strike of her greaves sounded like a titan mallet upon an anvil.

There was a moment's delay, but Zelda's expression began to soften. The unalloyed loathing in her eyes faded. She didn't even come close to looking sympathetic, but it also didn't look as she wanted to crush my windpipe either.

Nodding, Zelda grumbled, "Yes. You are correct. Let us fall back and find safety with other men of the Legions."

We did so with a quickness. Zelda darted ahead, seeming to bore a path through the retreating throng purely by her presence. Men saw her coming from over their shoulders and almost stumbled to get out of her way. Something about a tall, ghostly-white woman with eyes like furious gemstones coming their way, one would assume. I followed after at a wobbly trot.

I saw no one I knew in the back-scrabbling crowd. No welcoming eyes or familiar faces. I knew only that I needed to follow the violet shadow ahead of me as it sliced through the madness.

Behind us there echoed a series of clunking booms. Something heavy banged deliberately against the floor. I stopped running and chanced a look backward.

Seemingly satisfied with how far she had driven the mob of aristocrats, the Iron Knuckle had stopped her advance. She surveyed the hall, grin all but incandescent within the darkness of her helm. With a whine of plate steel, the Iron Knuckle threw up her arms in joyous welcome.

"You fine ladies and gentlemen of Hyrule!" she shouted. "Know this: I am the Iron Knuckle – Fist of Ganon!"

A new round of screams erupted from Mayda's audience. Her armor shook with her laughter.

She crowed, "I bring you good tidings! This city – your capital – is under attack. I am but one of many agents sent among your streets tonight. Before the dawn, Hylium will burn to the ground."

I whipped back, trying desperately to locate Zelda. I saw only a stew of unfamiliar figures, advancing and retreating. The former predominantly wore gray. Soldiers of the Legions were beginning to form an ad hoc line ahead of the civilian partygoers. Among the gathering fighters, I spied a sparking ball of blue light.

Well. At least I could throw myself on Prime Legionary Navi's mercy if worse came to worse. If she was in any mood to give it, of course.

But where the hell was Zelda?! Why hadn't she waited? And didn't she say . . .?

The thought was cut off as I heard the Iron Knuckle roar, "Oooooh HO! And here is the man of the hour himself! Everybody, give a hand to a true bro's bro, Daphnes Harkinian!"

What I saw as I swept back around chilled my blood: The King advanced toward the line of legionaries. Four agile men in suits rushed about him, hands pressed inside their jackets. One young Shiekah wore a look of pure panic as he slipped a rapier into his hand.

Mayda stood right in the King's path. She tossed a frivolous gauntlet his way. "Your highness! Your majesty! Your dudeness! You doddering relic of a decaying system!" she catcalled. "So good to finally meet you. I've seen you from afar, of course, but it really doesn't compare, does it?"

Harkinian stopped dead in his tracks. His scarred lips twitched. When one of his increasingly obvious bodyguards kept stumbling forward, the King held up one massive hand to hold him back. After all, the King and his circle were less than twenty feet away from the Iron Knuckle.

I found myself staring, enrapt by the exchange. All about us, the oaths and wails of terror were giving way to flurries of whispers. People apparently couldn't figure out if they should run or stay to watch the spectacle.

Others had no such confusion. They dashed through the ballroom's great double entrance doors, manic in their need for escape.

When the King didn't speak – just stood there, glowering as if in deep concentration – the Iron Knuckle coughed, "Tch! Fine. Be that way. I'll skip the handshake and get right to the proselytizing. Gimme a second to jog my memory . . ." Mayda shook her helmet, as if psyching herself up, and then growled, "Okay! Let's go."

The Knuckle's voice became a volcanic roar. "My friends! My dear Hylian neighbors! I wasn't joking when I told you that I come bearing _really _great news. Your lives are about to get so much more fucking awesome! Seriously – you wouldn't even believe!"

She turned, arms once again extended as if in warmth and hospitality. When she spoke next, there was no playfulness in her voice. Just hard, dark-edged malice. "After all, you rich bitches and high-and-mighty lords lead lives that I would call _pretty fucking boring_. Self-satisfied, arrogant, and indolent. Even as our Protectorate presses down on you, you preen and pretend that you are untouchable. You think yourself safe here, in the heart of your kingdom. Safe behind your walls of stone and hexes – behind all those willing meat shields of the Legions."

Mayda fell into what seemed like a contemplative silence. When her voice exploded back to life, the lingering partygoers gasped and shouted. "But here's the thing!" the Iron Knuckle crooned. "Here's the punch-line: Up 'til now, we've just been playing around. Getting a feel for how easy it is to kill you and take your lands. Having a bit of a goof, if you will.

"Well, tonight the toying ends and the terror begins. You will know what it's like to be at the mercy of angry gods. Nowhere is safe. Tonight, the hands and eyes and very heart of Ganon turn your way! Tremble at the might of his coming!"

Somewhere, someone was murmuring, "No. No. No. No. No. No."

Somewhere, a quavering voice led a prayer: "Oh, Nayru, grant us your eternal mercy . . ."

Somewhere, there were sounds of armor echoing against high hallways.

"Sorry to tell you this, kids," Mayda announced as if in commiseration, "but you're kind of fucked."

Though he moved not an inch from his spot, the King boomed, "We do not fear you, fiend! You have no power here."

"Bold words," Mayda chuckled. "Our reach is endless, old man. Our power, indomitable. Allow me to demonstrate."

The Iron Knuckle held up her gauntlets, turning their outward side to the King. As the entire ballroom watched as if observing a magician at a birthday party, her gauntlets began to _change_. Tiny fingers of painful yellow light shot like lightning across their surface.

I tried to form some kind of rational response. Any kind. Christ, but it was happening again and here I was just _standing there_ move you dumb fucking mannequin just do _something _or –

An odor like an electrical fire expanded through the ballroom. It mixed with all the stale perfume, tobacco smoke, spilled spirits, terror sweat, shat pants, and hot blood to create a miasma so cloying that I actually felt my gorge rise up and knock at the base of my esophagus.

The surface of the Iron Knuckle's gauntlets began to ripple and pulse. Her fingers began to _stretch_, making an unnerving sloughing sound as they pulled outward. From the churning surface of the armor, a complex network of golden filaments – appearing almost as metallic tendons – wove about each gauntlet. At the tip of each finger rose the unmistakable curvature of a keen, saber-like blade.

Sweet Jesus. The madwoman was growing _talons_.

Each razored appendage twitched and spasmed, shaking like newborns as they emerged from oozing quicksilver. Ten gleaming claws – every one of them easily the size of a Bowie knife.

As an entire ballroom full of scrabbling noblemen and gobstruck soldiers stared on, Mayda Keana planted an armored heel. Beneath its weight, cracks spidered out through the thick marble tiles. The sound drew nail files up and down my spine.

"Your majesty . . .!" the young Shiekah at the King's side choked. He had figured it out before anyone else.

The Iron Knuckle launched straight at the King and his retinue. She spread her gleaming, unsullied claws as if preparing for a jolly embrace. Her warcry exploded through the banquet hall, delighted laughter sneaking between each word.

"YOU WILL ALL DIE SCREAMING!"


	12. 12

**12**

The entire ballroom convulsed. An immense spasm, as if all those assembled comprised a single organ reacting to some agonizing stimulus. There were screams of such pitch that they seemed to vibrate the roots of my teeth. Grown men bellowed like musk oxen.

The young Shiekah guardsman threw himself into the Iron Knuckle's path, rapier poised. He cut a gallant figure – sword raised for King and country.

Trailing rough cackles, Mayda slid left. Steel wailed across stone. At once, the Shiekah bodyguard skipped out to meet her, nimble as an antelope. His rapier flashed out and shrieked across the breadth of the Knuckle's armor. It left not even the barest scratch.

Nonetheless, Mayda actually hopped backward, as if in hesitant retreat. Odd. She tossed out one of her clawed hands, rebalancing herself within the armor. Then, as if from a slingshot, she was in motion again.

The King backpedalled, a snarl etched over his lips. About him, his bodyguards lunged to and fro in some bizarre bit of choreographed chaos.

And Mayda charged right into it.

There was a whirlwind of silver and gold. A disturbing scissoring sound. A red galaxy of blood spun outward. Two of the suit-wearing soldiers fell – and one of them was the pale young Shiekah. His face had been slashed to ribbons. I could see the gleam of his teeth through one horrifically mangled cheek.

As I watched the stunned, terrifyingly wounded bodyguard fall, there rose a chorus of steel slashing upon steel. A choked cry; a man screamed; there was a nauseating ripping sound.

I looked up in time to see the Iron Knuckle bowl back out of the tangle of bodyguards and legionaries. She skidded to a halt, exhaled a bout of delighted laughter, and spun back around. A shower of blood fell from her talons.

"Geeheeheehee!" Mayda cackled. "Oh, man. I _knew _this was going to be great!"

The Iron Knuckle spread her claws and then flicked them derisively. Scarlet sprayed across the tiles. "Is this all you got, Hyrule?!" she howled. "Please tell me this is just an appetizer. Come on. Give me your best shot."

Only silence answered her. A bone-hollow hush fell over the remaining guests and the King's erstwhile defenders. They stared at the Iron Knuckle as if she were every dread conceivable embodied in one woman. Even the seething legionaries and veterans seemed genuinely unnerved by her presence.

And so they said nothing for a time. We listened to the groans of the wounded, the dying. I thought I saw at least four guys down – one of whom wasn't ever getting back up again.

I thought I caught a glimpse of paprika-red hair out among the guests stranded in the ballroom. I thought I –

"ENOUGH!"

The shout split the quiet like an axe through cardboard. I goggled, stunned by its sudden ferocity. But not only that:

It had been _my _voice.

Oh, fuck me.

Mayda turned slowly, casting her molten eyes on me. "Weird time for you to be sacking up, Olsen."

It took me a moment to realize that I couldn't back out now. I composed myself – as best I could – and barked, "I'm fucking serious, Mayda! This shit ends now!"

"Ooooh ho ho. Really?" she purred. "And why's that?"

"You told me that you only kill 'the worthy' or some shit. What the fuck is _this_, then? How can you even remotely claim you're better than the Bishop?"

Mayda's eyes narrowed. She rolled the fingers on one hand, razors shimmering in the candelabra light. "I really don't like when you compare me to him, Linus. Just FYI, okay?"

"Why? Does it sting a little?" I laughed. "Am I hitting a little close to the mark?"

Her eyes were white-hot slits – and yet her smile rose like the moon. Mayda said, "I give men an honorable end, Hero. Whereas our mutual friend kills because he likes to. Or _has_ to, maybe." I watched her luminescent grin briefly shape itself into a grimace.

She said, "I am a bringer of noble death. What better way to exit this false existence than at my hand? What better epigraph for your tombstone?"

"You certainly have a high opinion of yourself." The tips of my fingers settled atop the Master Sword's cross-guard. "And there I was, actually starting to kind of like you. I really need to work on my judgment of character."

Something about the Iron Knuckle's posture changed, almost imperceptibly. For a few moments, it almost seemed as if she slouched in her armor. Her eyes disappeared within the darkness of her helm.

"I told you, Linus . . . I literally can't not do this. When I accepted Ganon's patronage, I also became a conduit of his will. I am bound to serve his desires as best I can. And this . . ." Mayda tossed her head about, as if indicating the entirety of the ballroom. "This is what _he _wants now. So I'd say you need to back the fuck off or risk getting another souvenir from me."

"Somebody needs to put you down, Mayda. Bad."

About me, Legionaries crouched in their dress uniforms, eyes locked on every movement Mayda and I made. Those that had been wearing swords during the banquet now held them at the ready. Many others had a panoply of daggers and holdout knives suddenly, conveniently at hand.

"Is that _you, _then?" Mayda chuckled. "Are you the 'somebody' who's going to finally right all my wrongs?"

"Still working in that one," I admitted. "But . . . you know what? Fuck it."

I grabbed the pommel of the Master Sword and yanked it upward. The blade slid into my hand as if on an oiled track. Its weight dragged relentlessly against the unused muscles of my forearm. Nonetheless, I was able to flip the blade out and point it straight at the Iron Knuckle's chest plates.

"You never fucking know, huh? Stand down, Mayda. Leave."

"Certainly," Mayda deadpanned. "Let's definitely . . . _go_!"

And once again, the Iron Knuckle hurled herself toward me like a locomotive.

Let it be known: Executing a dodge while sloppy drunk and with half your torso in a sling is _serious business_. I scuttled left, sword bobbling in my unsure hand like it was made of rubber.

Clumsy as the maneuver was, it actually did take me out of Mayda's berserker path – but only for a moment. The Iron Knuckle jammed a greave into the tiles, then threw her momentum into an almost balletic spin. Her talons swept out in a coruscating whirlwind.

Warbling oaths and gasps resounded as my boots slid backward. I swiped the Master Sword out and felt Mayda's claws tear and bite at its blade. One, two, three slashing strikes! Each fell with such force that they threatened to rip the sword out of my hand. My fingers ached with the effort of keeping it balanced.

I took a blind chance: I allowed some course correction of my own, letting the last blow knock me into a series of amphibian hops. They felt childish and silly, but each one took me a few feet further out of Mayda's range.

What the hell had I been thinking? There was no way in any definition of Hell that I could beat her! I had barely gotten out of a duel with this woman alive the last time – and that had been in full armor and with _two hands_.

Ahead of me, the Iron Knuckle ended her twirling dance. She uncoiled like an iron serpent and stretched – luxuriantly, it seemed – within her armor. Mayda clucked her tongue and said, "You're lookin' pretty poorly out there, Olsen. Might want to rethink this."

The Other Me said, _Yes, she has a good point_.

I said, "Not on your fuckin' life."

_Goddamnit_, said the Other Me.

Mayda Keana whooped delighted laughter. It was laughter that had a ragged, jackal edge to it. She swept out her claws theatrically and announced, "What do you think, folks? Want to watch me tear your precious Hero apart like an insect?"

Well. At least _someone _was enjoying herself.

My chest heaved against the straightjacket tightness of the bandages. A dull ache kept pulsing up out of my shoulder and rippling the entire length of the arm.

Suddenly, there was a presence at my side. A whiff of cheap cologne. A solid wall of gray. Sinewy hands gripped about the shaft of a steel lance. A gruff growl: "Are ya' in need o' assistance, Sir Olsen?"

A glance confirmed my suspicion. I let the grin appear. I said, "Oh, I don't know. I might need a little help with this one, Sir Kael."

Sir Walther Kael stepped to my side. He brandished the lance defensively, unsure of what to make of our uncanny opponent.

"Who's this, then?" Mayda laughed. "Big man! I love killing big men. They always look so _surprised _that they're dying at a woman's hand."

A sudden thunderclap of heavy boots sounded behind us. I couldn't chance a look back to see who the reinforcements were, but the voices scattered among the boot falls sounded Hylian.

One of those voices called out, "All in front! Down to your knees!" Then, all but bellowing, "Nock!"

Beside me, Walther's eyes widened and he instinctively dropped down to his knees, bracing the butt of his lance between his ankles. I had but a moment to _oh fuck_

_oh  
>oh shit<br>merciful christ  
>farore<br>sweet din oh sweet nayru  
>help me<br>MY BACK_

[_The preceding annotations are followed by a largely incomprehensible scrawl of words, numbers, and odd symbols. Subsequently, this Exhibit abruptly ends._

_The final Exhibit in the overall sequence is a large, double-sized notebook with many smaller documents pasted throughout. These handwritten notes include other notebook pages, smaller bundles of stapled notes, journal fragments, and multiple passages jotted on grocery receipts and restaurant bills of sale. They are arranged in a manner intended to communicate a cohesive narrative._

_Transcript of the final Exhibit will follow shortly._]


End file.
